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Copyright, 1901 


Funk & Wagnalls 






London, England 

Printed in the 
United States of America 

Published in 
November, 1901 



Introduction 7 


I. In the Rue Vaugirard . . n 

II. The Boulevard St. Michel . 29 

III. The "Bal Bullier" .... 52 

IV. Bal des Quat'z' Arts ... 70 
V. " A Dejeuner at Lavenue's" 93 

VI. "At Marcel Legay's" ... 113 

VII. "Pochard" 129 

VIII. The Luxembourg Gardens . 151 
IX. "The Ragged Edge of the 

Quarter " 173 

X. Exiled 194 



" Cocher, drive to the rue Falguiere "— 
this in my best restaurant French. 

The man with the varnished hat shrugged 
his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in 
doubt. He evidently had never heard of 
the rue Falguiere. " Yes, rue Falguiere, 
the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. 

Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, 
oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." 

And it was at the end of this crooked 
street, through a lane that led into a half 
court flanked by a row of studio buildings, 
and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that 
I found a door bearing the name of the 
author of the following pages — his visiting 
card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt- 
sleeves — the thermometer stood at oo° out- 
side — working at his desk, surrounded by 
half-finished sketches and manuscript. 

The man himself I had met before — I 

had known him for years, in fact— but the 
surroundings were new to me. So too were 
his methods of work. 

Nowadays when a man would write of 
the Siege of Peking or the relief of some 
South African town with the unpronounce- 
able name, his habit is to rent a room on an 
up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and 
pad, and a collection of illustrated papers 
and encyclopedias. This writer on .the rue 
Falguiere chose a different plan. He would 
come back year after year, and study his 
subject and compile his impressions of the 
Quarter in the very atmosphere of the 
place itself; within a stone's throw of the 
Luxembourg Gardens and the Pantheon ; 
near the cafes and the Bullier ; next door, 
if you please, to the public laundry where 
his washerwoman pays a few sous for the 
privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. 

It all seemed very real to me, as I sat 
beside him and watched him at work. The 
method delighted me. I have similar ideas 
myself about the value of his kind of study 
in out-door sketching, compared with the 
labored work of the studio, and I have most 


positive opinions regarding the quality 
which comes of it. 

If then the pages which here follow have 
in them any of the true inwardness of the 
life they are meant to portray, it is due, I 
feel sure, as much to the attitude of the 
author toward his subject, as much to his 
ability to seize, retain, and express these 
instantaneous impressions, these flash pic- 
tures caught on the spot, as to any other 
merit which they may possess. 

Nothing can be made really real with- 
out it. 

F. Hopkinson Smith. 

Paris, August, 1901. 



Like a dry brook, 
its cobblestone bed zigzagging past quaint 
shops and cafes, the rue Vaugirard finds its 
way through the heart of the Latin Quarter. 
It is only one in a score of other busy 
little streets that intersect the Quartier 
Latin; but as I live on the rue Vaugirard, 
or rather just beside it, up an alley and in 
the corner of a picturesque old courtyard 
leading to the "Lavoir Gabriel," a somewhat 
angelic name for a huge, barn-like struc- 
ture reeking in suds and steam, and noisy 
with gossiping washerwomen who pay a 
few sous a day there for the privilege of 
doing their washing— and as my studio win- 

dows (the big one with the north light, and 
the other one a narrow slit reaching from the 
floor to the high ceiling for the taking in 
of the big canvases one sees at the Salon 
— which are never sold) overlook both alley 
and court, I can see the life and bustle below. 
This is not the Paris of Boulevards, 
ablaze with light and thronged with trav- 
elers of the world, nor of big hotels and chic 
restaurants without prices on the menus. 
In the latter the maitre d'hotel makes a 
mental inventory of you when you arrive ; 
and before you have reached your coffee 
and cigar, or before madame has buttoned 

her gloves, this 
dignified per- 
sonage has 
passed sentence 
on you, and you 
pay according 
to whatever he 
thinks you can- 
not afford. I 
knew a fellow 
once who or- 


dered a peach in winter at one of these 
smart taverns, and was obliged to wire 
home for money the next day. 

In the Quartier Latin the price is always 
such an important factor that it is marked 
plainly, and often the gareon will remind 
you of the cost of the dish you select in 
case you have not read aright, for in this 
true Bohemia one's daily fortune is the one 
necessity so often lacking that any error 
in regard to its expenditure is a serious 

In one of the well-known restaurants — 
here celebrated as a rendezvous for artists 
— a waiter, as he took a certain millionaire's 
order for asparagus, said : " Does monsieur 
know that asparagus costs five francs ? " 

At all times of the day and most of the 
night the rue Vaugirard is busy. During 
the morning, push-carts loaded with red 
gooseberries, green peas, fresh sardines, 
and mackerel, their sides shining like sil- 
ver, line the curb in front of the small 
shops. Diminutive donkeys, harnessed to 
picturesque two-wheeled carts piled high 
with vegetables, twitch their long ears and 

doze in the shady corners of the street. 
The gutters, flushed with clear water, flash 
in the sunlight. Baskets full of red roses 
and white carnations, at a few sous the 
armful, brighten the cool shade of the alleys 
leading to courtyards of wild gardens, many 
of which are filled with odd collections of 
sculpture discarded from the ateliers. 

Old women in linen caps and girls in felt 
slippers and leather-covered sabots, market 
baskets on arm, gossip in groups or hurry 
along the narrow sidewalk, stopping at the 
butcher's or the baker's to buy the dejeuner. 
Should you breakfast in your studio and do 

your own marketing, you will meet with 
enough politeness in the buying of a pate, 
an artichoke, and a bottle of vin ordinaire, 
to supply a court welcoming a distinguished 

Politeness is second nature to the Paris- 
ian—it is the key to one's daily life here, 
the oil that makes this finesse of civilization 
run smoothly. 

" Bonjour, madame ! " says the well-to-do 
proprietor of the tobacco-shop and cafe to 
an old woman buying a sou's worth of snuff. 

" Bonjour, monsieur," replies the woman 
with a nod. 

" Merci, madame," continues the fat pat- 
ron as he drops the sou into his till. 

"Merci, monsieur — merci!" and she se- 
cretes the package in her netted reticule, 
and hobbles out into the sunny street, while 
the patron attends to the wants of three 
draymen who have clambered down from 
their heavy carts for a friendly chat and a 
little vermouth. A polished zinc bar runs 
the length of the low-ceilinged room ; a nar- 
row, winding stairway in one corner leads 
to the living apartments above. Behind the 

bar shine three well-polished square mir- 
rors, and ranged in front of these, each in 
its zinc rack, are the favorite beverages of 
the Quarter — anisette, absinthe, menthe, 
grenadine — each in zinc-stoppered bottles, 
like the ones in the barber-shops. 

At the end of the little bar a cocher is 
having his morning tipple, the black brim of 
his yellow glazed hat resting on his coarse 
red ears. He is in his shirt-sleeves ; coat 
slung over his shoulder, and whip in hand, 
he is on the way to get his horse and 
voiture for the day. To be even a cocher 
in Paris is considered a profession. If he 
dines at six-thirty and you hail him to take 
you as he rattles past, he will make his 
brief apologies to you without slackening 
his pace, and go on to his plat du jour and 
bottle of wine at his favorite rendezvous, 
dedicated to "The Faithful Cocher." An 
hour later he emerges, well fed, revives his 
knee-sprung horse, lights a fresh cigarette, 
cracks his whip like a package of torpedoes, 
and goes clattering off in search of a cus- 

The shops along the rue Vaugirard are 

marvels of neatness. The butcher-shop, 
with its red front, is iron-barred like the 
lion's cage in the circus. Inside the cage 
are some choice specimens of filets, rounds 
of beef, death-masks of departed calves, 
cutlets, and chops in paper pantalettes. 
On each article is placed a brass sign with 
the current price thereon. 

In Paris nothing is wasted. A placard 
outside the butcher's announces an " Oc- 
casion" consisting of a mule and a don- 
key, both of guaranteed " premiere 
qualite." And the butcher! A thick-set, 
powerfully built fellow, with blue-black 
hair, curly like a bull's and shining in 
pomade, with fierce mustache of the 
same dye, waxed to two formidable 
points like skewers. Dangling over his 
white apron, and suspended by a heavy 
chain about his waist, he carries the long 
steel spike which sharpens his knives. All 
this paraphernalia gives him a very fierce 
appearance, like the executioner in the 
play ; but you will find him a mild, kindly 
man after all, who takes his absinthe 
slowly, with a fund of good humor after 

his day's work, and his family to Vincennes 
on Sundays. 

The windows, too, of these little shops 
are studies in decoration. If it happens to 
be a problem in eggs, cheese, butter, and 
milk, all these are arranged artistically with 
fresh grape-leaves between the white rows 
of milk bottles and under the cheese ; often 
the leaves form a nest for the white eggs 
(the fresh ones) — the hard-boiled ones are 
dyed a bright crimson. There are china 
hearts, too, filled with " Double Cream," 
and cream in little brown pots ; Roquefort 
cheese and Camembert, Isijny, and Pont 
Leveque, and chopped spinach. 

Delicatessen sho^s display galantines of 

chicken, the windows banked with shining 
cans of sardines and herrings from Dieppe ; 
liver pates and creations in jelly ; tiny sau= 
sages of doubtful stuffing, and occasional 
yellow ones like the odd fire-cracker of the 

Grocery shops, their interiors resemb- 
ling the toy ones of our childhood, are 
brightened with cones of snowy sugar in 
blue paper jackets. The wooden drawers 


filled with spices. Here, too, one can get 
an excellent light wine for eight sous the 

As the day begins, the early morning cries 
drift up from the street. At six the fish- 
women with their push-carts go their 
rounds, each singing the beauties of her 
wares. " Voila les beaux maquereaux ! " 
chants the sturdy vendor, her sabots clack- 
ing over the cobbles as she pushes the cart 
or stops and weighs a few sous' worth of 
fish to a passing purchaser. 

The goat-boy, piping his oboe-like air, 
passes, the goats scrambling ahead alert 
to steal a carrot or a bite of cabbage from 
the nearest cart. And when these have 
passed, the little orgue de Barbarie plays 
its repertoire of quadrilles and waltzes 
under your window. It is a very sweet- 
toned organ, this little orgue de Barbarie, 
with a plaintive, apologetic tone, and a flute 
obbligato that would do credit to many a 
small orchestra. I know this small organ 
well — an old friend on dreary mornings, 
putting the laziest riser in a good humor 
for the day. The tunes are never changed, 

but they are all inoffensive and many of 
them pretty, and to the shrunken old man 
who grinds them out daily they are no 
doubt by this time all alike. 

It is growing late and time for one's 
coffee. The little tobacco-shop and cafe 
around the corner I find an excellent place 
for cafe au lait. The coffee is delicious and 
made when one chooses to arrive, not 
stewed like soup, iridescent in color, and 
bitter with chicory, as one finds it in many 
of the small French hotels. Two crescents, 
flaky and hot from the bakery next door, 
and three generous pats of unsalted butter, 
complete this morning repast, and all for 
the modest sum of twelve sous, with three 
sous to the garcon who serves you, with 
which he is well pleased. 

I have forgotten a 
companionable cat who 
each morning takes her 
seat on the long leather 
settee beside me and 
shares my crescents. 
The cats are considered 
important members of 

nearly every family in the Quarter. Big 
yellow and gray Angoras, small, alert tor- 
toise-shell ones, tiger-like and of plainer 
breed and more intelligence, bask in the 
doorways or sleep on the marble-topped 
tables of the cafes. 

"Qu' est-ce que tu veux, ma pauvre 
Mimi ? " condoles Celeste, as she ap- 
proaches the family feline. 

" Mimi " stretches her full length, extend- 
ing and retracting her claws, rolls on her 
back, turns her big yellow eyes to Celeste 
and mews. The next moment she is picked 
up and carried back into the house like a 
stray child. 

At noon the streets seem deserted, except 
for the sound of occasional laughter and the 
rattle of dishes coming from the smaller 
restaurants as one passes. At this hour 
these places are full of workmen in white 
and blue blouses, and young girls from the 
neighboring factories. They are all laugh- 
ing and talking together. A big fellow in a 
blue gingham blouse attempts to kiss the 
little milliner opposite him at table ; she 
evades him, and, screaming with laughter, 

picks up her skirts and darts out of the 
restaurant and down the street, the big fel- 
low close on her dainty heels. A second 
later he has overtaken her, and picking her 
up bodily in his strong arms carries her 
back to her seat, where he places her in 
her chair, the little milliner by this time 
quite out of breath with laughter and quite 
happy. This little episode affords plenty of 
amusement to the rest of the crowd; they 
wildly applaud the good-humored captor, 
who orders another litre of red wine for 
those present, and every one is merry. 

The Parisian takes his hour for dejeuner, 
no matter what awaits him. It is the hour 
when lovers meet, too. Edmond, working 
in the atelier for the reproduction of Louis 
XVI furniture, meets Louise coming from 
her work on babies' caps in the rue des 
Saints-Peres at precisely twelve-ten on 
the corner of the rue Vaugirard and the 
Boulevard Montparnasse. Louise comes 
without her hat, her hair in an adorable 
coiffure, as neatly arranged as a Geisha's, 
her skirt held tightly to her hips, disclosing 
her small feet in low slippers. There is a 


golden rule, I believe, in the French cate- 
chism which says : " It is better, child, that 
thy hair be neatly dressed than that thou 
shouldst have a whole frock." And so 
Louise is content. The two breakfast on 
a ragout and a bottle of wine while they 
talk of going on Sunday to St. Cloud for 
the day — and so they must be economical 
this week. Yes, they will surely go to St. 
Cloud and spend all day in the woods. It 
is the second Sunday in the month, and the 
fountains will be playing. They will take 
their dejeuner with them. Louise will, of 
course, see to this, and Edmond will bring 
cigarettes enough for two, and the wine. 

Then, when the stars are out, they will 
take one of the "bateaux mouches" back 
to Paris. 

Dear Paris — the Paris of youth, of love, 
and of romance ! 

The pulse of the Quarter begins really to 
beat at 6 P. M. At this hour the streets 
are alive with throngs of workmen — after 
their day's work, seeking their favorite 
cafes to enjoy their aperitifs with their 
comrades— and women hurrying back from 
their work, many to their homes and chil- 
dren, buying the dinner en route. 

Henriette, who sews all day at one of the 
fashionable dressmakers' in the rue de la 
Paix, trips along over the Pont Neuf to her 
small room in the Quarter to put on her 
best dress and white kid slippers, for it is 
Bulliev night and she is going to the ball 
with two friends of her cousin. 

In the twilight, and from my studio win- 
dow the swallows, like black cinders against 
the yellow sky, dart and swoop above the 
forest of chimney-pots and tiled and gabled 


It is the hour to dine, and with this 
thought uppermost in every one's mind 
studio doors are slammed and night-keys 
tucked in pockets. And arm in arm the 
poet and the artist swing along to that 
evening Mecca of good Bohemians— the 
Boulevard St. Michel. 




ROM the Place St. 
Michel, this ever gay 
and crowded boule- 
vard ascends a long 
incline, up which the 
tired horses tug at 
the traces of the fia- 
cres, and the big 
double-decked steam 
trams crawl, until 
they reach the Luxembourg Gardens, 
— and so on a level road as far as the 
Place de l'Observatoire. Within this 
length lies the life of the " Boul' 

Nearly every highway has its popu- 
lar side, and on the " Boul' Miche " it is the 
left one, coming up from the Seine. Here 
are the cafes, and from 5 p.m. until long 
past midnight, the life of the Quartier pours 


by them — students, soldiers, families, poets, 
artists, sculptors, wives, and sweethearts ; 
bicycle girls, the modern grisette, the shop 
girl, and the model ; fakirs, beggars, and 
vagrants. Yet the word vagrant is a mis- 
nomer in this city, where economy has 
reached a finesse that is marvelous. That 
fellow, in filth and rags, shuffling along, his 
eyes scrutinizing, like a hungry rat, every 
nook and corner under the cafe tables on 
the terrace, carries a stick spiked with a 
pin. The next instant, he has raked the 
butt of your discarded cigarette from be- 
neath your feet with the dexterity of a 





croupier. The butt he adds to the collec- 
tion in his filthy pocket, and shuffles on to 
the next cafe. It will go so far at least 
toward paying for his absinthe. He is 
hungry, but it is the absinthe for which 
he is working. He is a "marchand de 
megots" ; it is his profession. 

One finds every type of restaurant, tavern, 
and cafe along the " Boul' Miche." There 
are small restaurants whose plat du jour 
might be traced to some faithful steed find- 
ing a final oblivion in a brown sauce and 
onions — an important item in a course din- 
ner, to be had with wine included for one 
franc fifty. There are brasseries too, 
gloomy by day and brilliant by night (dis- 
pensing good Munich beer in two shades, 
and German and French food), whose rich 
interiors in carved black oak, imitation 
gobelin, and stained glass are never half 
illumined until the lights are lit. 

All day, when the sun blazes, and the 
awnings are down, sheltering those chat- 
ting on the terrace, the interiors of these 
brasseries appear dark and cavernous. 

The clientele is somber too, and in keep- 


ing with the place ; silent poets, long haired, 
pale, and always writing ; serious-minded 
lawyers, lunching alone, and fat merchants 
who eat and drink methodically. 

Then there are bizarre cafes, like the 
d'Harcourt, crowded at night with noisy 
women tawdry in ostrich plumes, cheap 
feather boas, and much rouge. The d'Har- 
court at midnight is ablaze with light, but 
the crowd is common and you move on up 
the boulevard under the trees, past the 
shops full of Quartier fashions — velvet 
coats, with standing collars buttoning close 
under the chin ; flamboyant black silk 
scarfs tied in a huge bow ; queer broad- 
brimmed, black hats without which no 
"types" wardrobe is complete. 

On the corner facing the square, and op- 
posite the Luxembourg gate, is the Tav- 
erne du Pantheon. This is the most bril- 
liant cafe and restaurant of the Quarter, 
forming a V with its long terrace, at the 
corner of the boulevard and the rue Soufflot, 
at the head of which towers the superb 
dome of the Pantheon. 

It is 6 p.m. and the terrace, four rows 

deep with little round tables, is rapidly fill- 
ing. The white-aproned garcons are hurry- 
ing about or squeezing past your table, as 
they take the various orders. 

" Un demi ! un ! " shouts the garcon. 

"Deux pernod nature, deux!" cries an- 
other, and presently the "Omnibus" in his 
black apron hurries to your table, holding 
between his knuckles, by their necks, half a 
dozen bottles of different aperitifs, for it is 
he who fills your glass. 

It is the custom to do most of one's corre- 
spondence in these cafes. The garcon brings 
you a portfolio containing note-paper, a bot- 
tle of violet ink, an impossible pen that spat- 
ters, and a sheet of pink blotting-paper that 
does not absorb. With these and your 

aperatif, the place is yours as long as you 
choose to remain. No one will ask you to 
"move on" or pay the slightest attention 
to you. 

Should you happen to be a cannibal chief 
from the South Seas, and dine in a green 
silk high hat and a necklace of your latest 
captive's teeth, you would occasion a pass- 
ing glance perhaps, but you would not be a 

Celeste would say to Henriette : 

" Regarde ca, Henriette ! est-il drole, ce 
sauvage ? " 

And Henriette would reply quite assur- 
ingly : 

" Eh bien quoi ! c'est pas si extraordi- 
naire, il est peut-etre de Madagascar ; il y 
en a beaucoup a Paris maintenant." 

There is no phase of character, or eccen- 
tricity of dress, that Paris has not seen. 

Nor will your waiter polish off the marble 
top of your table, with the hope that your 
ordinary sensibility will suggest another 
drink. It would be beneath his professional 
dignity as a good garcon de cafe. The two 
sous you have given him as a pourboire, he 

is well satisfied with, and expresses his con- 
tentment in a " merci, monsieur, merci," 
the final syllable ending in a little hiss, 
prolonged in proportion to his satisfaction. 
After this just formality, you will find him 
ready to see the point of a joke or discuss 
the current topics of the day. He is intelli- 
gent, independent, very polite, but never 

It is difficult now to find a vacant 
chair on the long 
terrace. A group 
of students are 
having a " Per- 
nod," after along 
day's work at the 
atelier. They 
finish their ab- 
sinthe and then, 
arm in arm, start 
off to Madame 
Poivret's for din- 
ner. It is cheap 
there; besides, 
the little "boite," 
with its dingy 

room and sawdust floor, is a favorite haunt 
of theirs, and the good old lady, with her 
credit slate, a friendly refuge in time of 

At your left sits a girl in bicycle bloomers, 
yellow-tanned shoes, and short black socks 
pulled up snug to her sunburned calves. 
She has just ridden in from the Bois de 
Boulogne, and has scorched half the way 
back to meet her "officier" in pale blue. 
The two are deep in conversation. Farther 
on are four older men, accompanied by a 
pale, sweet-faced woman of thirty, her blue- 
black hair brought in a bandeau over her 

dainty ears. She is the model of the gray- 
haired man on the left, a man of perhaps 
fifty, with kindly intelligent eyes and strong, 
nervous, expressive hands — hands that 
know how to model a colossal Greek war- 
horse, plunging in battle, or create a nymph 
scarcely a foot high out of a lump of clay, so 
charmingly that the French Government 
has not only bought the nymph, but given 
him a little red ribbon for his pains. 

He is telling the others of a spot he knows 
in Normandy, where one can paint — full of 
quaint farm-houses, with thatched roofs ; 
picturesque roadsides, rich in foliage ; bright 
waving fields, and cool green woods, and 


purling streams ; quaint gardens, choked 
with lavender and roses and hollyhocks — 
and all this fair land running to the white 
sand of the beach, with the blue sea beyond. 
He will write to old Pere Jaqueline that 
they are all coming — it is just the place in 
which to pose a model "en plein air," — and 
Suzanne, his model, being a Normande her- 
self, grows enthusiastic at the thought of 
going down again to the sea. Long before 
she became a Parisienne, and when her 
beautiful hair was a tangled shock of curls, 
she used to go out in the big boats, with 
the fisherwomen — barefooted, brown, and 
happy. She tells them of those good 
days, and then they all go into the Tav- 
erne to dine, filled with the idea of the 
new trip, and dreaming of dinners under 
the trees, of "Tripes a la mode de Caen," 
Normandy cider, and a lot of new sketches 

Already the tables within are well filled. 
The long room, with its newer annex, is as 
brilliant as a jewel box — the walls rich in 
tiled panels suggesting the life of the Quar- 
ter, the woodwork in gold and light oak, 

the big panels of the rich gold ceiling ex- 
quisitely painted. 

At one of the tables two very chic young 
women are dining with a young French- 
man, his hair and dress in close imitation 
of the Due d'Orleans. These poses in 
dress are not uncommon. 

A strikingly pretty woman, in a scarlet- 
spangled gown as red as her lips, is dining 
with a well-built, soldierly-looking man in 
black ; they sit side by side as is the cus- 
tom here. 

The woman reminds one of a red lizard — 
a salamander — her "svelte" body seemingly 
boneless in its gown of clinging scales. 
Her hair is purple-black and freshly on- 
duled ; her skin as white as ivory. She has 
the habit of throwing back her small, well- 
posed head, while under their delicately 
penciled lids her gray eyes take in the 
room at a glance. 

She is not of the Quarter, but the Tav- 
erne du Pantheon is a refuge for her at 
times, when she grows tired of Paillard's 
and Maxim's and her quarreling retinue. 

" Let them howl on the other bank of the 

Seine," says this empress of the half-world 
to herself, " I dine with Raoul where I 

And now one glittering, red arm with its 
small, heavily-jeweled hand glides toward 
Raoul's open cigarette case, and in with- 
drawing a cigarette she presses for a 
moment his big, strong hand as he holds 
near her polished nails the flaming 

Her companion watches her as she 
smokes and talks — now and then he leans 
closer to her, squaring his broad shoulders 
and bending lower his strong, determined 
face, as he listens to her, — half-amused, 
replying to her questions leisurely, in short, 


crisp sentences. Suddenly she stamps 
one little foot savagely under the table, 
and, clenching her jeweled hands, breathes 
heavily. She is trembling with rage ; 
the man at her side hunches his great 
shoulders, flicks the ashes from his cigar- 
ette, looks at her keenly for a moment, 
and then smiles. In a moment she is her- 
self again, almost penitent ; this little sav- 
age, half Roumanian, half Russian, has 
never known what it was to be ruled ! She 
has seen men grow white when she has 
stamped her little foot, but this big Raoul, 
whom she loves— who once held a garrison 
with a handful of men — he does not trem- 
ble ! she loves him for his devil-me-care 
indifference— and he enjoys her temper. 

But the salamander remembers there are 
some whom she dominated, until they 
groveled like slaves at her feet; even the 
great Russian nobleman turned pale when 
she dictated to him archly and with the 
voice of an angel the price of his freedom. 

"Poor fool! he shot himself the next 
day," mused the salamander. 

Yes, and even the adamant old banker in 


Paris, crabbed, stern, unrelenting to his 
debtors — shivered in his boots and ended 
in signing away half his fortune to her, 
and moved his family into a permanent 
chateau in the country, where he keeps 
himself busy with his shooting and his 

As it grows late, the taverne becomes 
more and more animated. 

Every one is talking and having a good 
time. The room is bewildering in gay color, 
the hum of conversation is everywhere, and 
as there is a corresponding row of tables 
across the low, narrow room, friendly greet- 
ings and often conversations are kept up 
from one side to the other. The dinner, as 
it progresses, assumes the air of a big 
family party of good bohemians. The 
French do not bring their misery with 
them to the table. To dine is to enjoy 
oneself to the utmost ; in fact the French 
people cover their disappointment, sad- 
ness, annoyances, great or petty troubles, 
under a masque of "blague," and have 
such an innate dislike of sympathy or ridi- 

cule that they avoid it by turning every- 
thing into "blague." 

This veneer is misleading, for at heart 
the French are sad. Not to speak of their 
inmost feelings does not, on the other hand, 
prevent them at times from being most 
confidential. Often, the merest exchange 
of courtesies between those sharing the 
same compartment in a train, or a seat on 
a "bus," seems to be a sufficient introduc- 
tion for your neighbor to tell you where he 
comes from, where he is going, whether he 
is married or single, whom his daughter 
married, and what regiment his son is in. 
These little confidences often end in his 
offering you half his bottle of wine and ex- 
tending to you his cigarettes. 

If you have finished dinner, you go out on 
the terrace for your coffee. The fakirs are 
passing up and down in front, selling their 
wares — little rabbits, wonderfully lifelike, 
that can jump along your table and sit on 
their hind legs, and wag their ears ; toy 
snakes ; small leaden pigs for good luck ; 
and novelties of every description. Here 
one sees women with baskets of ecrivisse 

boiled scarlet ; an acrobat tumbles on the 
pavement, and two men and a girl, as a 
marine, a soldier, and a vivandiere, in sil- 
vered faces and suits, pose in melodramatic 
attitudes. The vivandiere is rescued alter- 
nately from a speedy death by the marine 
and the soldier. 

Presently a little old woman 
approaches, shriveled and 
smiling, in her faded fur- 
belows now in rags. 
She sings in a piping 
voice and executes be- 
tween the verses a tot- 
tering pas seul, her 
eyes ever smiling, as 
if she still saw over 
the glare of the foot- 






lights, in the haze beyond, the vast audience 
of by-gone days ; smiling as if she still heard 
the big orchestra and saw the leader with 
his vibrant baton, watching her every move- 
ment. She is over seventy now, and was 
once a premier danseuse at the opera. 

But you have not seen all of the Taverne 
du Pantheon yet. There is an " American 
Bar " downstairs ; at least, so the sign reads 
at the top of a narrow stairway leading to a 
small, tavern-like room, with a sawdust 
floor, heavy deal tables, and wooden stools. 
In front of the bar are high stools that 
one climbs up on and has a lukewarm whisky 
soda, next to Yvonne and Marcelle, who 
are both singing the latest catch of the day 
at the top of their lungs, until they are 
howled at to keep still or are lifted bodily 
off their high stools by the big fellow in the 
"type " hat, who has just come in. 

Before a long table at one end of the room 
is the crowd of American students singing 
in a chorus. The table is full now, for many 
have come from dinners at other cafes to 
join them. At one end, and acting as inter- 
locutor for this impromptu minstrel show, 


presides one of the best fellows in the world. 
He rises solemnly, his genial round face 
wreathed in a subtle smile, and announces 
that he will sing, by earnest request, that 
popular ballad, " Twas Summer and the 
Little Birds were Singing in the Trees." 

There are some especially fine "barber 
chords " in this popular ditty, and the words 
are so touching that it is repeated over and 
over again. Then it is sung softly like the 
farmhand quartettes do in the rural melo- 
drama outside the old homestead in harvest 
time. Oh ! I tell you it's a truly rural oc- 
tette. Listen to that exhibition bass voice 
of Jimmy Sands and that wandering tenor 
of Tommy Whiteing, and as the last chord 
dies away (over the fields presumably) a 
shout goes up : 

"How's that?" 

" Out of sight," comes the general verdict 
from the crowd, and bang go a dozen beer 
glasses in unison on the heavy table. 

"Oh, que c'est beau!" cries Mimi, lead- 
ing the successful chorus in a new vocal 
number with Edmond's walking-stick ; but 
this time it is a French song and the whole 

room is singing it, including our old friend, 
Monsieur Frank, the barkeeper, who is 
mixing one of his famous concoctions which 
are never twice quite alike, but are better 
than if they were. 

The harmonic beauties of " Twas Sum- 
mer and the Little Birds were Singing in 
the Trees" are still inexhausted, but it 
sadly needs a piano accompaniment — with 
this it would be perfect ; and so the whole 
crowd, including Yvonne, and Celeste, and 
Marcelle, and the two Frenchmen, and the 
girl in the bicycle clothes, start for Jack 
Thompson's studio in the rue des Four- 
neaux, where there is a piano that, even if 
the candles in the little Louis XVI brackets 
do burn low and spill down the keys, and 
the punch rusts the strings, it will still 
retain that beautiful, rich tone that every 
French upright, at seven francs a month, 



There are all types of "bals" in Paris. 
Over in Montmartre, on the Place Blanche, 
is the well-known "Moulin Rouge," a place 
suggestive, to those who have never seen it, 
of the quintessence of Parisian devil-me- 
care gayety. You expect it to be like those 
clever pen-and-ink drawings of Grevin's, of 
the old Jardin Mabille in its palmiest days, 
brilliant with lights and beautiful women 
extravagantly gowned and bejeweled. You 

expect to see Frenchmen, too, in pot-hats, 
crowding in a circle about Fifine, who is 
dancing some mad can-can, half hidden in 
a swirl of point lace, her small, polished 
boots alternately poised above her dainty 
head. And when she has finished, you 
expect her to be carried off to supper at 
the Maison Doree by the big, fierce-look- 
ing Russian who has been watching her, 
and whose victoria, with its spanking team 
— black and glossy as satin — champing 
their silver bits outside, awaiting her 

But in all these anticipations you will be 
disappointed, for the famous Jardin Ma- 
bille is no more, and the ground where it 
once stood in the Champs Elysees is now 
built up with private residences. Fifine is 
gone, too — years ago — and most of the old 
gentlemen in pot-hats who used to watch 
her are buried or about to be. Few French- 
men ever go to the "Moulin Rouge," but 
every American does on his first night in 
Paris, and emerges with enough cab fare 
to return him to his hotel, where he ar- 
rives with the positive conviction that the 

red mill, with its slowly revolving sails, 
lurid in crimson lights, was constructed 
especially for him. He remembers, too, his 
first impressions of Paris that very morning 
as his train rolled into the Gare St. La- 
zare. His aunt could wait until to-morrow 
to see the tomb of Napoleon, but he would 
see the "Moulin Rouge " first, and to be in 
ample time ordered dinner early in his 
expensive, morgue-like hotel. 

I remember once, a few hours after my 
arrival in Paris, walking up the long hill to 
the Place Blanche at 2 p. m., under a bla- 
zing July sun, to see if they did not give a 
matinee at the " Moulin Rouge." The place 
was closed, it is needless to say, and the 
policeman I found pacing his beat outside, 
when I asked him what day they gave a 
matinee, put his thumbs in his sword belt, 
looked at me quizzically for a moment, 
and then roared. The " Moulin Rouge " is 
in full blast every night ; in the day-time it 
is being aired. 

Farther up in Montmartre, up a steep, 
cobbly hill, past quaint little shops and 
cafes, the hill becoming so steep that your 

cab horse finally refuses to climb further, 
and you get out and walk up to the 
" Moulin de la Galette." You find it a far 
different type of ball from the "Moulin 
Rouge," for it is not made for the stranger, 
and its clientele is composed of the rougher 
element of that quarter. 

A few years ago the "Galette" was not 
the safest of places for a stranger to go to 
alone. Since then, however, this ancient 
granary and mill, that has served as a ball- 
room for so many years, has undergone a 
radical change in management ; but it is 
still a cliquey place, full of a lot of habitues 
who regard a stranger as an intruder. 
Should you by accident step on Marcelle's 
dress or jostle her villainous-looking escort, 
you will be apt to get into a row, beginning 
with a mode of attack you are possibly 
ignorant of, for these "maquereaux " fight 
with their feet, having developed this " manly 
art " of self-defense to a point of dexterity 
more to be evaded than admired. And while 
Marcelle's escort, with a swinging kick, 
smashes your nose with his heel, his pals will 
take the opportunity to kick you in the back. 

So, if you go to the " Galette," go with a 
a Parisian or some of the students of the 
Quarter ; but if you must go alone — keep 
your eyes on the band. It is a good band, 
too, and its chef d'orchestre, besides being 
a clever musical director, is a popular com- 
poser as well. 

Go out from the ball-room into the tiny 
garden and up the ladder-like stairs to the 
rock above, crowned with the old windmill, 
and look over the iron railing. Far below 
you, swimming in a faint mist under the 
summer stars, all Paris lies glittering at 
your feet. 

You will find the " Bal Bullier" of the 
Latin Quarter far different from the "bals" 
of Montmartre. It forms, with its " grand 
fete " on Thursday nights, a sort of social 
event of the week in this Quarter of Bo- 
hemians, just as the Friday afternoon prome- 
nade does in the Luxembourg garden. 

If you dine at the Taverne du Pantheon 

on a Thursday night you will find that the 

taverne is half deserted by 10 o'clock, and 

that every one is leaving and walking up 


the "Boul' Miche" toward the " Bullier." 
Follow them, and as you reach the place 
TObservatoire, and turn a sharp corner to 
the left, you will see the facade of this 
famous ball, illumined by a sizzling blue 
electric light over the entrance. 

The facade, with its colored bas-reliefs of 
students and grisettes, reminds one of the 
proscenium of a toy theater. Back of this 
shallow wall bristle the tops of the trees in 
the garden adjoining the big ball-room, both 
of which are below the level of the street 
and are reached by a broad wooden stairway. 

The "Bal Bullier" was founded in 1847; 
previous to this there existed the " Closerie 
des Lilas " on the Boulevard Montparnasse. 
You pass along with the line of waiting 
poets and artists, buy a green ticket for 
two francs at the little cubby-hole of a box- 
office, are divested of your stick by one of 
half a dozen white-capped matrons at the 
vestiaire, hand your ticket to an elderly 
gentleman in a silk hat and funereal clothes, 
at the top of the stairway sentineled by a 
guard of two soldiers, and the next instant 
you see the ball in full swing below you. 

There is nothing disappointing about the 
"Bal Bullier." It is all you expected it to 
be, and more, too. Below you is a veritable 
whirlpool of girls and students — a vast sea 
of heads, and a dazzling display of colors 
and lights and animation. Little shrieks 
and screams fill your ears, as the orchestra 
crashes into the last page of a galop, quick- 
ening the pace until Yvonne's little feet slip 
and her cheeks glow, and her eyes grow 
bright, and half her pretty golden hair gets 
smashed over her impudent little nose. 
Then the galop is brought up with a quick 

"Bis! Bis! Bis! Encore!" comes from 
every quarter of the big room, and the con- 
ductor, with his traditional good-nature, 
begins again. He knows it is wiser to 
humor them, and off they go again, still 
faster, until all are out of breath and rush 
into the garden for a breath of cool air and 
a " citron glace." 

And what a pretty garden it is ! — full of 

beautiful trees and dotted with round iron 

tables, and laid out in white gravel walks, 

the garden sloping gently back to a fountain, 


and a grotto and an artificial 
cascade all in one, with a 
figure of Venus in the cen- 
ter, over which the water 
splashes and trickles. There 
is a green lattice proscenium, 
too, surrounding the foun- 
tain, illuminated with colored 
lights and outlined in tiny flames of gas, 
and grotto-like alcoves circling the garden, 
each with a table and room for two. The 
ball-room from the garden presents a bril- 
liant contrast, as one looks down upon it 
from under the trees. 

But the orchestra has given its signal — a 
short bugle call announcing a quadrille ; 
and those in the garden are running down 
into the ball-room to hunt up their partners. 

The "Bullier" orchestra will interest you ; 
they play with a snap and fire and a tempo 
that is irresistible. They have played to- 
gether so long that they have become known 
as the best of all the bal orchestras. 

The leader, too, is interesting — tall and 
gaunt, with wild, deep-sunken eyes resem- 
bling those of an old eagle. Now and then 



By Helleu.— Estampe Moderne 

he turns his head slowly as he leads, and 
rests these keen, penetrating orbs on the 
sea of dancers below him. Then, with baton 
raised above his head, he brings his or- 
chestra into the wild finale of the quadrille 
— piccolos and clarinets, cymbals, bass viols, 
and violins — all in one mad race to the end, 
but so well trained that not a note is lost in 
the scramble — and they finish under the 
wire to a man, amid cheers from Mimi and 
Celeste and "encores" and "bis's" from 
every one else who has breath enough left 
to shout with. 

Often after an annual dinner of one of the 
ateliers, the entire body of students will 
march into the " Bullier," three hundred 
strong, and take a good-natured possession 
of the place. There have been some seri- 
ous demonstrations in the Quarter by the 
students, who can form a small army when 
combined. But as a rule you will find them 
a good-natured lot of fellows, who are out 
for all the humor and fun they can create at 
the least expense. 

But in June, 1893, a serious demonstra- 
tion by the students occurred, for these stu- 

dents can fight as well as dance. Senator 
Beranger, having read one morning in the 
" Courrier Francais " an account of the 
revelry and nudity of several of the best- 
known models of the Quarter at the " Quatz 
Arts" ball, brought a charge against the 
organizers of the ball, and several of the 
models, whose beauty unadorned had made 
them conspicuous on this most festive oc- 
casion. At the ensuing trial, several cele- 
brated beauties and idols of the Latin 
Quarter were convicted and sentenced to 
a short term of imprisonment, and fined a 
hundred francs each. These sentences were, 
however, remitted, but the majority of the 
students would not have it thus, and wanted 
further satisfaction. A mass meeting was 
held by them in the Place de la Sorbonne. 
The police were in force there to stop any 
disturbance, and up to 10 o'clock at night 
the crowd was held in control. 

It was a warm June night, and every stu- 
dent in the Quarter was keyed to a high 
state of excitement. Finally a great crowd 
of students formed in front of the Cafe 
d'Harcourt, opposite the Sorbonne ; things 
6 4 

were at fever heat ; the police became 
rough ; and in the row that ensued, some- 
body hurled one of the heavy stone match- 
safes from a cafe table at one of the police- 
men, who in his excitement picked it up 
and hurled it back into the crowd. It struck 
and injured fatally an innocent outsider, who 
was taken to the Charity Hospital, in the 
rue Jacob, and died there. 

On the following Monday another mass 
meeting of students was held in the Place de 
la Sorbonne, who, after the meeting, formed 
in a body and marched to the Chamber of 
Deputies, crying : "Conspuez Dupuy," who 
was then president of the Chamber. A 
number of deputies came out on the portico 
and the terrace, and smilingly reviewed the 
demonstration, while the students hurled 
their anathemas at them, the leaders and 
men in the front rank of this howling mob 
trying to climb over the high railing in front 
of the terrace, and shouting that the police 
were responsible for the death of one of 
their comrades. 

The Government, fearing further trouble 
and wishing to avoid any disturbance on 


the day of the funeral of the victim of the 
riot in the Place Sorbonne, deceived the 
public as to the hour when it would occur. 
This exasperated the students so that they 
began one of those demonstrations for 
which Paris is famous. By 3 p. m. the next 
day the Quartier Latin was in a state of 
siege — these poets and painters and sculp- 
tors and musicians tore up the rue Jacob 
and constructed barricades near the hos- 
pital where their comrade had died. They 
tore up the rue Bonaparte, too, at the Place 
St. Germain des Pres, and built barricades, 
composed of overturned omnibuses and 
tramcars and newspaper booths. They 
smashed windows and everything else in 
sight, to get even with the Government and 
the smiling deputies and the murderous 

police and then the troops came, and the 

affair took a different turn. In three days 
thirty thousand troops were in Paris — 
principally cavalry, many of the regiments 
coming from as far away as the center of 

With these and the police and the Garde 
Republicaine against them, the students 

melted away like a handful of snow in the 
sun ; but the demonstrations continued spas- 
modically for two or three days longer, and 
the little crooked streets, like the rue du 
Four, were kept clear by the cavalry trot- 
ting abreast — in and out and dodging 
around corners — their black horse-tail 
plumes waving and helmets shining. It 
is sufficient to say that the vast army of 
artists and poets were routed to a man and 
driven back into the more peaceful atmos- 
phere of their studios. 

But the " Bullier " is closing and the 
crowd is pouring out into the cool air. I 
catch a glimpse of Yvonne with six stu- 
dents all in one fiacre, but Yvonne has been 
given the most comfortable place. They 
have put her in the hood, and the next 
instant they are rattling away to the Pan- 
theon for supper. 

If you walk down with the rest, you will 
pass dozens of jolly groups singing and 
romping and dancing along down the 
" Boul' Miche " to the taverne, for a bock 
and some ecrivisse. With youth, good hu- 
mor, and a " louis," all the world seems gay ! 


Of all the balls in Paris, the annual " Bal 
des QuatV Arts" stands unique. This 
costume ball is given every year, in the 
spring, by the students of the different ate- 
liers, each atelier vying with the others in 
creation of the various floats and corteges, 
and in the artistic effect and historical cor- 
rectness of the costumes. 

The first "QuatV Arts" ball was given 
in 1892. It was a primitive affair, compared 
with the later ones, but it was a success, 
and immediately the "Quat'z' Arts" Ball 
was put into the hands of clever organizers, 
and became a studied event in all its ar- 
tistic sense. Months are spent in the cre- 
ation of spectacles and in the costuming of 
students and models. Prizes are given for 
the most successful organizations, and a 
jury composed of painters and sculptors 
passes upon your costume as you enter the 

ball, and if 
you do not 
come up to 
their artistic 
standard you are un- 
ceremoniously turned ~* 
away. Students who 
have been successful 
in getting into the 
"QuatV Arts" for years 
often fail to pass into this 
bewildering display of beauty and 
brains, owing to their costume 
not possessing enough artistic or- 
iginality or merit to pass the jury. 

It is, of course, a difficult matter for one 
who is not an enrolled member of one of the 
great ateliers of painting, architecture, or 
sculpture to get into the "QuatV Arts," 
and even after one's ticket is assured, you 
may fail to pass the jury. 

Imagine this ball, with its procession of 
moving tableaux. A huge float comes 
along, depicting the stone age and the 
primitive man, every detail carefully stud- 
ied from the museums. Another repre- 

sents the last day of Babylon. One sees 
a nude captive, her golden hair and white 
flesh in contrast with the black velvet litter 
on which she is bound, being carried by a 
dozen stalwart blackamoors, followed by 
camels bearing nude slaves and the spoils 
of a captured city. 

As the ball continues until daylight, it 
resembles a bacchanalian fete in the days 
of the Romans. But all through it, one is 
impressed by its artistic completeness, its 
studied splendor, and permissible license, 
so long as a costume (or the lack of it) pro- 
duces an artistic result. One sees the mise 
en scene of a barbaric court produced by 
the architects of an atelier, all the various 

details constructed 
from carefully stud- 
ied sketches, with 
may be a triumphal 
throne of some bar- 
baric king, with his 
slaves, the whole 
costumed and done 
in a studied magnifi- 
cence that takes 

one's breath away. Again an atelier of 
painters may reproduce the frieze of the 
Parthenon in color ; another a float or a 
decoration, suggesting the works of their 

The room becomes a thing of splendor, 
for it is as gorgeous a spectacle as the 
cleverest of the painters, sculptors, and 
architects can make it, and is the result of 
careful study— and all for the love of it !— 
for the great "Quat'z' Arts" ball is an 
event looked forward to for months. Special 
instructions are issued to the different 
ateliers while the ball is in preparation, and 
the following one is a translation in part 
from the notice issued before the great ball 
of '99. As this is a special and private 
notice to the atelier, its contents may be 
interesting : 

Bal des Quat'Z' Arts, 
Moulin Rouge, 21 April, 1899. 

Doors open at 10 p. m. and closed at mid- 

The card of admission is absolutely per- 
sonal, to be taken by the committee before 
the opening of the ball. 

The committee will be masked, and com- 


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rades without their personal card will be 
refused at the doon The cards must carry 
the name and quality of the artist, and bear 
the stamp of his atelier. 

Costumes are absolutely necessary. The 
soldier — the dress suit, black or in color — 
the monk — the blouse — the domino — kitchen 
boy — loafer — bicyclist, and other nauseous 
types, are absolutely prohibited. 

Should the weather be bad, comrades are 
asked to wait in their carriages, as the 
committee in control cannot, under any 
pretext, neglect guarding the artistic effect 
of the ball during any confusion that might 

A great "feed" will take place in the 
grand hall ; the buffet will serve as usual 
individual suppers and baskets for two 

The committee wish especially to bring 
the attention of their comrades to the ques- 
tion of women, whose cards of admission 
must be delivered as soon as possible, so 
as to enlarge their attendance — always 

Prizes (champagne) will be distributed to 
the ateliers who may distinguish them- 
selves by the artistic merit and beauty of 
their female display. 

All the women who compete for these 


prizes will be assembled on the grand stair- 
case before the orchestra. The nude, as 
always, is prohibited ! ? ! 

The question of music at the head of the 
procession is of the greatest importance, 
and those comrades who are musical will 
please give their names to the delegates of 
the ateliers. Your good-will in this line is 
asked for— any great worthless capacity in 
this line will do, as they always play the 
same tune, " Les Pompiers ! " 

The Committee — 1899. 

For days before the "Quat'z' Arts" ball, 
all is excitement among the students, who 
do as little work as possible and rest them- 
selves for the great event. The favorite 
wit of the different ateliers is given the 
task of painting the banner of the atelier, 
which is carried at the head of the several 
corteges. One of these, in Bouguereau's 
atelier, depicted their master caricatured 
as a cupid. 

The boys once constructed an elephant 
with oriental trappings — an elephant that 
could wag his ears and lift his trunk and 
snort — and after the two fellows who 
formed respectfully the front and hind legs 

of this knowing 
beast had practised 
sufficently to pro- 
ceed with him safe- 
ly, at the head of 
a cortege of slave 
girls, nautch dan- 
cers, and manacled 
captives, the big beast 
created a success in 
the procession at the 
"QuatV Arts" ball. 
After the ball, in the gray 
morning light, they marched it back to the 
atelier, where it remained for some weeks, 
finally becoming such a nuisance, kicking 
around the atelier and getting in every- 
body's way, that the boys agreed to give it 
to the first junk-man that came around. 
But as no junk-man came, and as no one 
could be found to care for its now sadly 
battered hulk, its good riddance became a 
problem. What to do with the elephant ! 
that was the question. 

At last the two, who had sweltered in 
its dusty frame that eventful night of the 


"QuatV Arts," hit upon an idea. They 
marched it one day up the Boulevard St. 
Germain to the Cafe des deux Magots, fol- 
lowed by a crowd of people, who, when it 
reached the cafe, assembled around it, 
every one asking what it was for — or rather 
what it was ? — for the beast had by now 
lost much of the resemblance of its former 
self. When half the street became blocked 
with the crowd, the two wise gentlemen 
crawled out of its fore and aft, and quickly 
mingled, unnoticed, with the bystanders. 
Then they disappeared in the crowd, leav- 
ing the elephant standing in the middle of 
the street. Those who had been expecting 
something to happen — a circus or the rest 
of the parade to come along — stood around 
for a while, and then the police, realizing 
that they had an elephant on their hands, 
carted the thing away, swearing meanwhile 
at the atelier and every one connected 
with it. 

The cafes near the Odeon, just before 
the beginning of the ball, are filled with 
students in costume ; gladiators hobnob at 
the tables with savages in scanty attire — 


Roman soldiers and students, in the garb of 
the ancients, strut about or chat in groups, 
while the uninvited grisettes and models, 
who have not received invitations from the 
committee, implore them for tickets. 

Tickets are not transferable, and should 
one present himself at the entrance of the 
ball with another fellow's ticket, he would 
run small chance of entering. 

"What atelier?" commands the jury 
" Cormon." 

The student answers, while the jury 
glance at his makeup. 

"To the left!" cries the jury, and you 
pass in to the ball. 

But if you are unknown they will say 
simply, " Connais-pas ! To the right!" 
and you pass down a long covered alley — 
confident, if you are a "nouveau," that it 
leads into the ball-room — until you sud- 
denly find yourself in the street, where 
your ticket is torn up and all hope of enter- 
ing is gone. 

It is hopeless to attempt to describe the 
hours until morning of this annual artistic 
orgy. As the morning light comes in through 


Drawing by SANGHA 

PARIS, 1 901 

Roman soldiers and students, in the garb of 
the ancients, strut about or chat in groups, 
while the uninvited grisettes and models, 
who have not received invitations from the 
committee, implore them for tickets. 

Tickets are not transferable, and should 
one present himself at the entrance of the 
ball with another fellow's ticket, he would 
run small chance of entering. 

"What atelier?" commands the jury 
" Cormon." 

The student answers, while the jury- 
glance at his makeup. 

"To the leftl'^gje^^^ury, and you 
pass in to the J^ A8 ^ ^^ 

But if you are unknggm^ they will say 
simply, " Connais-pas I To the right!" 
and you pass down a long covered alley- 
confident, if you are a "nouveau," that it 
leads into the ballroom— until you sud- 
denly find yourself in the street, where 
your ticket is torn up and all hope of enter- 
ing is gone. 

It is hopeless to attempt to describe the 
until morning of this annual artistic 
orgy. As the morning light comes in through 

the windows, it is strange to see the effect 
of diffused daylight, electricity, and gas — 
the bluish light of early morning reflected on 
the flesh tones— upon nearly three thousand 
girls and students in costumes one might 
expect to see in a bacchanalian feast, just 
before the fall of Rome. Now they form a 
huge circle, the front row sitting on the floor, 
the second row squatting, the third seated 
in chairs, the fourth standing, so that all can 
see the dancing that begins in the morning 
hours — the wild impromptu dancing of the 
moment. A famous beauty, her black hair 
bound in a golden fillet with a circle wrought 
in silver and studded with Oriental tur- 
quoises clasping her superb torso, throws 
her sandals to the crowd and begins an 
Oriental dance — a thing of grace and beauty 
— fired with the intensity of the innate na- 
ture of this beautifully modeled daughter of 

As the dance ends, there is a cry of de- 
light from the great circle of barbarians. 
" Long live the Quat'z' Arts ! " they cry, 
amid cheers for the dancer. 

The ball closes about seven in the morn- 

ing, when the long procession forms to 
return to the Latin Quarter, some march- 
ing, other students and girls in cabs and on 
top of them, many of the girls riding the 
horses. Down they come from the "Moulin 
Rouge," shouting, singing, and yelling. 
Heads are thrust out of windows, and a 
volley of badinage passes between the fan- 
tastic procession and those who have heard 
them coming. 

Finally the great open court of the 
Louvre is reached — here a halt is made and 
a general romp occurs. A girl and a type 
climb one of the tall lamp-posts and pre- 
pare to do a mid-air balancing act, when 
rescued by the others. At last, at the end 
of all this horse-play, the march is resumed 
over the Pont du Carrousel and so on, 
cheered now by those going to work, until 
the Odeon is reached. Here the odd pro- 
cession disbands ; some go to their favorite 
cafes where the festivities are continued — 
some to sleep in their costumes or what 
remains of them, wherever fortune lands 
them — others to studios, where the gaiety 
is often kept up for days. 

Ah ! but life is not all " couleur de rose " in 
this true Bohemia. 

"One day," says little Marguerite (she 
who lives in the rue Monge), "one eats and 
the next day one doesn't. It is always like 
that, is it not, monsieur? — and it costs so 
much to live, and so you see, monsieur, life 
is always a fight." 

And Marguerite's brown eyes swim a 
little and her pretty mouth closes firmly. 

" But where is Paul ? " I ask. 

"I do not know, monsieur," she replies 
quietly ; " I have not seen him in ten days — 
the atelier is closed — I have been there 
every day, expecting to find him — he left 
no word with his concierge. I have been 
to his cafe too, but no one has seen him — 
you see, monsieur, Paul does not love me ! " 

I recall an incident that I chanced to see 
in passing the little shop where Marguerite 
works, that only confirms the truth of her 
realization. Paul had taken Marguerite 
back to the little shop, after their dejeuner 
together, and, as I passed, he stopped at 
the door with her, kissed her on both 
cheeks, and left her ; but before they had 

gone a dozen paces, they ran back to em- 
brace again. This occurred four times, 
until Paul and Marguerite finally parted. 
And, as he watched her little heels disap- 
pear up the wooden stairs to her work- 
room above, Paul blew a kiss to the pretty 
milliner at the window next door, and, 
taking a long whiff of his cigarette, saun- 
tered off in the direction of his atelier 

It is ideal, this student life with its stu- 
dent loves of four years, but is it right 

to many an 
honest little 
who seldom 
knows an 
hour when 
she is away 
from her ami? 
who has suf- 
f e r e d and 
starved and 
slaved with 
him through 
years of days 


of good and bad luck — who has encouraged 
him in his work, nursed him when ill, and 
made a thousand golden hours in this poet's 
or painter's life so completely happy, that 
he looks back on them in later life as never- 
to-be-forgotten ? He remembers the good 
dinners at the little restaurant near his 
studio, where they dined among the old 
crowd. There were Lavaud the sculptor 
and Francine, with the figure of a goddess ; 
Moreau, who played the cello at the opera ; 
little Louise Dumont, who posed at Julian's, 
and old Jacquemart, the very soul of good 
fellowship, who would set them roaring 
with his inimitable humor. 

What good dinners they were ! — and how 
long they sat over their coffee and cigar- 
ettes under the trees in front of this little 
restaurant — often ten and twelve at a time, 
until more tables had to be pushed together 
for others of their good friends, who in 
passing would be hailed to join them. And 
how Marguerite used to sing all through 
dinner and how they would all sing, until it 
grew so late and so dark that they had to 
puff their cigarettes aglow over their plates, 

and yell to Madame Giraud for a light! 
And how the old lady would bustle out 
with the little oil lamp, placing it in the 
center of the long table amid the forest of 
vin ordinaires, with a " Voila, mes enfants ! " 
and a cheery word for all these good boys 
and girls, whom she regarded quite as her 
own children. 

It seemed to them then that there would 
never be anything else but dinners at 
Madame Giraud's for as many years as 
they pleased, for no one ever thought of 
living out one's days, except in this good 
Bohemia of Paris. They could not imagine 
that old Jacquemart would ever die, or that 
La Belle Louise would grow old, and go 
back to Marseilles, to live with her dried- 
up old aunt, who sold garlic and bad cheese 
in a little box of a shop, up a crooked street ! 
Or that Francine would marry Martin, the 
painter, and that the two would bury them- 
selves in an adorable little spot in Brittany, 
where they now live in a thatched farm- 
house, full of Martin's pictures, and have a 
vegetable garden of their own — and a cow 
— and some children ! But they did ! 


And those memorable dinners in the old 
studio back of the Gare Montparnasse ! 
when paints and easels were pushed aside, 
and the table spread, and the piano rolled 
up beside it. There was the buying of the 
chicken, and the salad that Francine would 
smother in a dressing into which she would 
put a dozen different things — herbs and 
spices and tiny white onions ! And what 
a jolly crowd came to these impromptu 
feasts ! How much noise they used to 
make ! How they danced and sang until 
the gray morning light would creep in 
through the big skylight, when all these 
good bohemians would tiptoe down the 

waxed stairs, and slip past the different 
ateliers for fear of waking those painters 
who might be asleep — a thought that never 
occurred to them until broad daylight, and 
the door had been opened, after hours of 
pandemonium and music and noise ! 

In a little hotel near the Odeon, there 
lived a family of just such bohemians — 
six struggling poets, each with an imagi- 
nation and a love of good wine and good 
dinners and good times that left them con- 
tinually in a state of bankruptcy ! As they 
really never had any money — none that ever 
lasted for more than two days and two 
nights at the utmost, their good landlord 
seldom saw a sou in return for his hospita- 
ble roof, which had sheltered these six 
great minds who wrote of the moon, and 
of fate, and fortune, and love. 

For days they would dream and starve 
and write. Then followed an auction sale 
of the total collection of verses, hawked 
about anywhere and everywhere among 
the editeurs, like a crop of patiently grown 
fruit. Having sold it, literally by the yard, 
they would all saunter up the " Boul' Miche," 

and forget their past misery, in feasting, to 
their hearts' content, on the good things of 
life. On days like these, you would see 
them passing, their black-brimmed hats 
adjusted jauntily over their poetic locks — 
their eyes beaming with that exquisite 
sense of feeling suddenly rich, that those 
who live for art's sake know ! The keen- 
est of pleasures lie in sudden contrasts, and 
to these six poetic, impractical Bohemians, 
thus suddenly raised from the slough of 
despond to a state where they no longer 
trod with mortals — their cup of happiness 
was full and spilling over. They must not 
only have a good time, but so must every 
one around them. With their great riches, 
they would make the world gay as long as 
it lasted, for when it was over they knew 
how sad life would be. For a while — then 
they would scratch away — and have another 
auction ! 

Unlike another good fellow, a painter 
whom I once knew, who periodically found 
himself without a sou, and who would 
take himself, in despair, to his lodgings, 
make his will, leaving most of his immortal 


works to his English aunt, go to bed, and 
calmly await death ! In a fortunate space 
of time his friends, who had been hunting 
for him all over the Quarter, would find him 
at last and rescue him from his chosen 
tomb ; or his good aunt, fearing he was 
ill, would send a draft ! Then life would, 
to this impractical philosopher, again be- 
come worth living. He would dispatch a 
"petit bleu" to Marcelle ; and the two 
would meet at the Cafe Cluny, and dine at 
La Perruse on filet de sole au vin blanc, 
and a bottle of Haut Barsac— the bottle all 
cobwebs and cradled in its basket — the 
garcon, as he poured its golden contents, 
holding his breath meanwhile lest he dis- 
turb its long slumber. 

There are wines that stir the soul, and 
this was one of them— clear as a topaz and 
warming as the noonday sun — the same 
warmth that had given it birth on its hill- 
side in Bordeaux, as far back as '82. It 
warmed the heart of Marcelle, too, and 
made her cheeks glow and her eyes sparkle 
— and added a rosier color to her lips. 
It made her talk — clearly and frankly, 

with a full and a happy heart, so that she 
confessed her love for this "bon gargon " 
of a painter, and her supreme admiration 
for his work and the financial success he 
had made with his art. All of which this 
genial son of Bohemia drank in with a 
feeling of pride, and he would swell out 
his chest and curl the ends of his long mus- 
tache upwards, and sigh like a man bur- 
dened with money, and secure in his ability 
and success, and with a peaceful outlook 
into the future — and the fact that Marcelle 
loved him of all men ! They would linger 
long over their coffee and cigarettes, and 
then the two would stroll out under the 
stars and along the quai, and watch the 
little Seine boats crossing and recrossing, 
like fireflies, and the lights along the Pont 
Neuf reflected deep down like parti-colored 
ribbons in the black water. 



If you should chance to breakfast at 
" Lavenue's," or, as it is called, the "Hotel 
de France et Bretagne," for years famous 
as a rendezvous of men celebrated in art 
and letters, you will be impressed first with 
the simplicity of the three little rooms form- 
ing the popular side of this restaurant, and 
secondly with the distinguished appearance 
of its clientele. 

As you enter the front room, you pass 
good Mademoiselle Fanny at the desk, a 
cheery, white-capped, genial old lady, who 
has sat behind that desk for forty years, 
and has seen many a " bon garcon " struggle 
up the ladder of fame — from the days when 
he was a student at the Beaux-Arts, until 
his name became known the world over. 
It has long been a favorite restaurant with 
men like Rodin, the sculptor — and Colin, 
the painter — and the late Falguiere — and 



Jean Paul Laurens and Bonnat, and dozens 
of others equally celebrated — and with 
our own men, like Whistler and Sargent 
and Harrison, and St. Gaudens and Mac- 

These three plain little rooms are totally 
different from the " other side," as it is 
called, of the Maison Lavenue. Here one 
finds quite a gorgeous cafe, with a pretty 
garden in the rear, and another room — 
opening into the garden — done in delicate 
green lattice and mirrors. This side is far 
more expensive to dine in than the side with 
the three plain little rooms, and the gentle- 
men with little red ribbons in their button- 
holes ; but as the same good cook dispenses 
from the single big kitchen, which serves 
for the dear and the cheap side the same 
good things to eat at just half the price, the 
reason for the popularity of the " cheap 
side " among the crowd who come here 
daily is evident. 

It is a quiet, restful place, this Maison 

Lavenue, and the best place I know in 

which to dine or breakfast from day to day. 

There is an air of intime and cosiness about 



• r 

Lavenue's that makes one always wish to 

You will see a family of rich bourgeois 
enter, just in from the country, for the 
Montparnasse station is opposite. The fat, 
sunburned mama, and the equally rotund 
and genial farmer-papa, and the pretty 
daughter, and the newly married son and 
his demure wife, and the two younger chil- 
dren — and all talking and laughing over a 
good dinner with champagne, and many 
toasts to the young couple— and to mama 
and papa, and little Josephine — with ices, 
and fruit, and coffee, and liqueur to follow. 

All these you will see at Lavenue's on 
the " cheap side " — and the beautiful model, 

too, who poses for Courbel, who is break- 
fasting with one of the jeunesse of Paris. 
The waiters after 2 p. m. dine in the front 
room with the rest, and jump up now and 
then to wait on madame and monsieur. 

It is a very democratic little place, this 
popular side of the house of M. Lavenue, 
founded in 1854. 

And there is a jolly old painter who dines 
there, who is also an excellent musician, 
with an ear for rhythm so sensitive that he 
could never go to sleep unless the clock in 
his studio ticked in regular time, and at 
last was obliged to give up his favorite 
atelier, with its picturesque garden 

"For two reasons, monsieur," he ex- 
plained to me excitedly; "a little girl on 
the floor below me played a polka— the 
same polka half the day — always forgetting 
to put in the top note ; and the fellow over 
me whistled it the rest of the day and put 
in the top note false ; and so I moved to the 
rue St. Peres, where one only hears, within 
the cool court-yard, the distant hum of the 
busy city. The roar of Paris, so full of 
chords and melody ! Listen to it some- 

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By Bellanger.— Estampe Moderne 

times, monsieur, and you will hear a 
symphony !" 

And Mademoiselle Fanny will tell you 
of the famous men she has known for years, 
and how she has found the most celebrated 
of them simple in their tastes, and free from 
ostentation — "in fact it is always so, is it 
not, with les hommes celebres ? C'est tou- 
jours comme 5a, monsieur, toujours ! " and 
mentions one who has grown gray in the 
service of art and can count his decorations 
from half a dozen governments. Madame 
will wax enthusiastic — her face wreathed 
in smiles. " Ah ! he is a bon garcon ; he 
always eats with the rest, for three or four 
francs, never more ! He is so amiable, and, 
you know, he is very celebrated and very 
rich"; and madame will not only tell you 
his entire history, but about his work — the 
beauty of his wife and how " aimables " his 
children are. Mademoiselle Fanny knows 
them all. 

But the men who come here to lunch are 
not idlers ; they come in, many of them, 
fresh from a hard morning's work in the 
studio. The tall sculptor opposite you has 

been at work, since his morning coffee, on 
a group for the government ; another, bare- 
armed and in his flannel shirt, has been 
building up masses of clay, punching and 
modeling, and scraping away, all the morn- 
ing, until he produces, in the rough, the 
body of a giantess, a huge caryatide that 
is destined, for the rest of her existence, to 
hold upon her broad shoulders part of the 
facade of an American building. The 
"giantess" in the flesh is lunching with 
him — a Juno-like woman of perhaps twenty- 
five, with a superb head well poised, her 
figure firm and erect. You will find her 
exceedingly interesting, quiet, and refined, 
and with a knowledge of things in general 
that will surprise you, until you discover 
she has, in her life as a model, been thrown 
daily in conversation with men of genius, 
and has acquired a smattering of the knowl- 
edge of many things— of art and litera- 
ture — of the theater and its playwrights 
— plunging now and then into medicine and 
law and poetry — all these things she has 
picked up in the studios, in the cafes, in the 
course of her Bohemian life. This " verms," 


as the French call it, one finds constantly 
among the women here, for their days are 
passed among men of intelligence and 
ability, whose lives and energy are sur- 
rounded and encouraged by an atmosphere 
of art. 

In an hour, the sculptor and his Juno-like 
model will stroll back to the studio, where 
work will be resumed as long as the light 

The painter breakfasting at the next 
table is hard at work on a decorative panel 
for a ceiling. It is already laid out and 
squared up, from careful pencil drawings. 
Two young architects are working for him, 
laying out the architectural balustrade, 
through which one, a month later, looks 
up at the allegorical figures painted against 
the dome of the blue heavens, as a back- 
ground. And so the painter swallows his 
eggs, mayonnaise, and demi of beer, at a 
gulp, for he has a model coming at two, and 
he must finish this ceiling on time, and ship 
it, by a fast liner, to a millionaire, who has 
built a vault-like structure on the Hudson, 
with iron dogs on the lawn. Here this 



beautiful panel will be unrolled and in- 
stalled in the dome of the hard-wood bil- 
liard-room, where its rich, mellow scheme of 
color will count as naught ; and the cupids 
and the flesh-tones of the chic little model, 
who came at two, will appear jaundiced ; 
and Aunt Maria and Uncle John, and the 
twins from Ithaca, will come in after the 
family Sunday dinner of roast beef and po- 
tatoes and rice pudding and ice-water, and 
look up into the dome and agree "it's 
grand." But the painter does not care, 
for he has locked up his studio, and taken 
his twenty thousand francs and the model 
— who came at two — with him to Trouville. 
At night you will find a typical crowd of 
Bohemians at the Closerie des Lilas, where 
they sit under a little clump of trees on the 
sloping dirt terrace in front. Here you will 
see the true type of the Quarter. It is the 
farthest up the Boulevard St. Michel of any 
of the cafes, and just opposite the "Bal Bul- 
lier," on the Place de l'Observatoire. The 
terrace is crowded with its habitues, for it 
is out of the way of the stream of people 
along the "Boul' Miche." The terrace is 

quite dark, its only light coming from the 
cafe, back of a green hedge, and it is 
cool there, too, in summer, with the fresh 
night air coming from the Luxembourg 
Gardens. Below it is the cafe and rest- 
aurant de la Rotonde, a very well-built 
looking place, with its rounding facade on 
the corner. 

At the entrance of every studio court and 
apartment, there lives the concierge in a 
box of a room generally, containing a huge 
feather-bed and furnished with a variety of 
things left by departing tenants to this 
faithful guardian of the gate. Many of 
these small rooms resemble the den of an 
antiquary with their odds and ends from the 
studios — old swords, plaster casts, sketches 
and discarded furniture — until the place is 
quite full. Yet it is 
kept neat and clean by 
madame, who sews all 
day and talks to her 
cat and to every one 
who passes into the 
court-yard. Here your 
letters are kept, too, 

in one of a row of boxes, with the number 
of your atelier marked thereon. 

At night, after ten, your concierge opens 
the heavy iron gate of your court by pulling 
a cord within reach of the family bed. He 
or she is waked up at intervals through the 
night to let into and out of a court full of 
studios those to whom the night is ever 
young. Or perhaps your concierge will be 
like old Pere Valois, who has three pretty 
daughters who do the housework of the 
studios, as well as assist in the guardian- 
ship of the gate. They are very busy, these 
three daughters of Pere Valois — all the 
morning you will see these little "femmes 
de menage" as busy as bees; the artists 
and poets must be waked up, and beds 
made and studios cleaned. There are 
many that are never cleaned at all, but 
then there are many, too, who are not so 
fortunate as to be taken care of by the 
three daughters of Pere Valois. 

There is no gossip within the quarter 

that your "femme de menage" does not 

know, and over your morning coffee, which 

she brings you, she will regale you with the 


latest news about most of your best friends, 
including your favorite model, and madame 
from whom you buy your wine, always con- 
cluding with : "That is what I heard, mon- 
sieur, — I think it is quite true, because the 
little Marie, who is the femme de menage 
of Monsieur Valentin, got it from Celeste 
Dauphine yesterday in the cafe in the rue 
du Cherche Midi." 

In the morning, this demure maid-of-all- 
work will be in her calico dress with her 
sleeves rolled up over her strong white 
arms, but in the evening you may see her 
in a chic little dress, at the "Bal Bullier," 
or dining at the Pantheon, with the fellow 
whose studio is opposite yours. 

Alice Lemaitre, however, was a far differ- 
ent type of femme de menage than any of 
the gossiping daughters of old Pere Valois, 
and her lot was harder, for one night she 
left her home in one of the provincial towns, 
when barely sixteen, and found herself in 
Paris with three francs to her name and 
not a friend in this big pleasure-loving city 
to turn to. After many days of privation, 
she became bonne to a woman known as 


Yvette de Marcie, a lady with a bad tem- 
per and many jewels, to whom little Alice, 
with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and 
willing disposition to work in order to live, 
became a person upon whom this fashion- 
able virago of a demi-mondaine vented 
the worst that was in her— and there was 
much of this — until Alice went out into the 
world again. She next found employment 
at a baker's, where she was obliged to 
get up at four in the morning, winter 
and summer, and deliver the long loaves 
of bread at the different houses; but the 
work was too hard and she left. The 
baker paid her a trifle a week for her labor, 
while the attractive Yvette de Marcie 
turned her into the street without her 
wages. It was while delivering bread one 
morning to an atelier in the rue des Dames, 
that she chanced to meet a young painter 
who was looking for a good femme de 
menage to relieve his artistic mind from 
the worries of housekeeping. Little Alice 
fairly cried when the good painter told 
her she might come at twenty francs a 
month, which was more money than this 

very grateful and brave little Brittany girl 
had ever known before. 

" You see, monsieur, one must do one's 
best whatever one undertakes," said Alice 
to me ; " I have tried every profession, and 
now I am a good femme de menage, and I 
am 'bien contente.' No," she continued, 
" I shall never marry, for one's independence 
is worth more than anything else. When 
one marries," she said earnestly, her little 
brow in a frown, " one's life is lost ; I am 
young and strong, and I have courage, and 
so I can work hard. One should be content 
when one is not cold and hungry, and I have 
been many times that, monsieur. Once I 
worked in a fabrique, where, all day, we 
painted the combs of china roosters a bright 
red for bon-bon boxes— hundreds and hun- 
dreds of them until I used to see them in 
my dreams ; but the fabrique failed, for the 
patron ran away with the wife of a Russian. 
He was a very stupid man to have done 
that, monsieur, for he had a very nice wife of 
his own — a pretty brunette, with a charming 
figure ; but you see, monsieur, in Paris it is 
always that way. C'est toujours comme ca." 


i f ■ )M. 






UST off the Bou- 
levard St. Michel 
and up the nar- 
row little rue 
Cujas, you will 
see at night the 
name " Marcel 
Legay" illumined 
in tiny gas-jets. 
This is a cabaret of chansonniers known as 
"Le Grillon," where a dozen celebrated 
singing satirists entertain an appreciative 
audience in the stuffy little hall serving as 
an auditorium. Here, nightly, as the piece 
de resistance — and late on the programme 
(there is no printed one) — you will hear the 
Bard of Montmartre, Marcel Legay, racon- 
teur, poet, musician, and singer ; the author 
of many of the most popular songs of Mont- 
martre, and a veteran singer in the cabarets. 



From these cabarets of the student quar- 
ters come many of the cleverest and most 
beautiful songs. Here men sing their own 
creations, and they have absolute license to 
sing or say what they please ; there is no 
mincing of words, and many times these 
rare bohemians do not take the trouble to 
hide their clever songs and satires under a 
double entente. No celebrated man or 
woman, known in art or letters, or con- 
nected with the Government — from the sol- 
dier to the good President of the Republique 
Francaise — is spared. The eccentricity of 
each celebrity is caught by them, and used 
in song or recitation. 

Besides these personal caricatures, the 
latest political questions of the day— re- 
ligion and the haut monde — come in for a 
large share of good-natured satire. To be 
cleverly caricatured is an honor, and should 
evince no ill-feeling, especially from these 
clever singing comedians, who are the best 
of fellows at heart ; whose songs are clever 
but never vulgar ; who sing because they 
love to sing ; and whose versatility enables 
them to create the broadest of satires, and, 

again, a little song with words so pure, so 
human, and so pathetic, that the applause 
that follows from the silent room of listeners 
comes spontaneously from the heart. 

It is not to be wondered at that " The 
Grillon " of Marcel Legay's is a popular 
haunt of the habitues of the Quarter, who 
crowd the dingy little room nightly. You 
enter the " Grillon " by way of the bar, and 
at the further end of the bar-room is a 
small anteroom, its walls hung in clever 
posters and original drawings. This ante- 
room serves as a sort of green-room for 
the singers and their friends ; here they 
chat at the little tables between their songs 
— since there is no stage — and through this 
anteroom both audience and singers pass 
into the little hall. There is the informal- 
ity of one of our own "smokers " about the 
whole affair. 

Furthermore, no women sing in " Le Gril- 
lon " — a cabaret in this respect is different 
from a cafe concert, which resembles very 
much our smaller variety shows. A small 
upright piano, and in front of it a low plat- 
form, scarcely its length, complete the nec- 

essary stage paraphernalia of the cabaret, 
and the admission is generally a franc and 
a half, which includes your drink. 

In the anteroom, four of the singers are 
smoking and chatting at the little tables. 
One of them is a tall, serious-looking fellow, 
in a black frock coat. He peers out through 
his black-rimmed eyeglasses with the so- 
lemnity of an owl — but you should hear his 
songs ! — they treat of the lighter side of 
life, I assure you. Another singer has just 
finished his turn, and comes out of the 
smoky hall, wiping the perspiration from 
his short, fat neck. The audience is still 
applauding his last song, and he rushes 
back through the faded green velvet por- 
tieres to bow his thanks. 

A broad-shouldered, jolly-looking fellow, 
in white duck trousers, is talking earnestly 
with the owl-like looking bard in eyeglasses. 
Suddenly his turn is called, and you follow 
him in, where, as soon as he is seen, he is 
welcomed by cheers from the students and 
girls, and an elaborate fanfare of chords on 
the piano. When this popular poet-singer 
has finished, there follows a round of ap- 


plause and a pounding of canes, and then 
the ruddy - faced, gray - haired manager 
starts a three-times-three handclapping in 
unison to a pounding of chords on the piano. 
This is the proper ending to every demand 
for an encore in " Le Grillon," and it never 
fails to bring one. 

It is nearly eleven when the curtain parts 
and Marcel Legay rushes hurriedly up the 
aisle and greets the audience, slamming his 
straw hat upon the lid of the piano. He 
passes his hand over his bald pate — gives 
an extra polish to his eyeglasses— beams 
with an irresistibly funny expression upon 
his audience — coughs — whistles — passes a 
few remarks, and then, adjusting his glasses 
on his stubby red nose, looks serio-comic- 
ally over his roll of music. He is dressed in 
a long, black frock-coat reaching nearly to 
his heels. This coat, with its velvet collar, 
discloses a frilled white shirt and a white 
flowing bow scarf; these, with a pair of 
black-and-white check trousers, complete 
this every-day attire. 

But the man inside these voluminous 
clothes is even still more eccentric. Short, 

indefinitely past fifty years of age, with a 
round face and merry eyes, and a bald head 
whose lower portion is framed in a fringe of 
long hair, reminding one of the coiffure of 
some pre-Raphaelite saint — indeed, so strik- 
ing is this resemblance that the good bard 
is often caricatured with a halo surrounding 
this medieval fringe. 

In the meantime, while this famous singer 
is selecting a song, he is overwhelmed with 
demands for his most popular ones. A 
dozen students and girls at one end of the 
little hall, now swimming in a haze of pipe 
and cigarette smoke, are hammering with 
sticks and parasols for " Le matador avec 
les pieds du vent " ; another crowd is yell- 
ing for "La Goularde." Marcel Legay 
smiles at them all through his eyeglasses, 
then roars at them to keep quiet — and 
finally the clamor in the room gradually 
subsides — here and there a word— a giggle 
— and finally silence. 

" Now, my children, I will sing to you the 
story of Clarette," says the bard ; " it is a 
very sad histoire. I have read it," and he 
smiles and cocks one eye. 


His baritone voice still possesses con- 
siderable fire, and in his heroic songs he 
is dramatic. In " The Miller who grinds 
for Love," the feeling and intensity and 
dramatic quality he puts into its rendition 
are stirring. As he finishes his last encore, 
amidst a round of applause, he grasps his 
hat from the piano, jams it over his bald 
pate with its celestial fringe, and rushes for 
the door. Here he stops, and, turning for a 
second, cheers back at the crowd, waving 
the straw hat above his head. The next 
moment he is having a cooling drink among 
his confreres in the anteroom. 

Such " poet-singers " as Paul Delmet and 
Dominique Bonnaud have made the "Gril- 
lon " a success ; and others like Numa Bles, 
Gabriel Montoya, D'Herval, Fargy, Tourtal, 
and Edmond Teulet — all of them well- 
known over in Montmartre, where they are 
welcomed with the same popularity that 
they meet with at " Le Grillon." 

Genius, alas, is but poorly paid in this 
Bohemia ! There are so many who can 
draw, so many who can sing, so many 
poets and writers and sculptors. To many 


of the cleverest, half a loaf is too often 
better than no bread. 

You will find often in these cabarets and 
in the cafes and along the boulevard, a man 
who, for a few sous, will render a portrait 
or a caricature on the spot. You learn that 
this journeyman artist once was a well- 
known painter of the Quarter, who had 
drawn for years in the academies. The 
man at present is a wreck, as he sits in a 
cafe with portfolio on his knees, his black 
slouch hat drawn over his scraggly gray 
hair. But his hand, thin and drawn from 
too much stimulant and too little food, has 
lost none of its knowledge of form and line ; 
the sketch is strong, true, and witn a chic 
about it and a simplicity of expression that 
delight you. You ask why he has not 
done better. 

"Ah!" he rephes, Hit is a long story, 
monsieur." So long and so much of it that 
he can not remember it all ! Perhaps it was 
the woman with the velvety black eyes — 
tall and straight — the best dancer in all 
Paris. Yes, he remembers some of it — 
long, miserable years — years of struggles 


and jealousy, and finally lies and fights and 
drunkenness ; after it was all over, he was 
too gray and old and tired to care ! 

One sees many such derelicts in Paris 
among these people who have worn them- 
selves out with amusement, for here the 
world lives for pleasure, for " la grande 
vie ! " To the man, every serious effort he 
is obliged to make trends toward one idea 
— that of the bon vivant — to gain success 
and fame, but to gain it with the idea of 
how much personal daily pleasure it will 
bring him. Ennui is a word one hears 
constantly; if it rains toute le monde est 
triste. To have one's gaiety interrupted 
is regarded as a calamity, and "tout le 
monde " will sympathize with you. To 
live a day without the pleasures of life in 
proportion to one's purse is considered a 
day lost. 

If you speak of anything that has pleased 
you one will, with a gay rising inflection of 
the voice and a smile, say : " Ah ! c'est gai 
la-bas — and monsieur was well amused while 
in that beautiful country?" "ah! — tiens ! 
c'est gentil 9a ! " they will exclaim, as you 

enthusiastically continue to explain. They 
never dull your enthusiasm by short phleg- 
matic or pessimistic replies. And when you 
are sad they will condone so genuinely with 
you that you forget your disappointments 
in the charming pleasantry of their sympa- 
thy. But all this continual race for pleas- 
ure is destined in the course of time to end 
in ennui ! 

The Parisian goes into the latest sport 
because it affords him a new sensation. 
Being blase of all else in life, he plunges 
into automobiling, buys a white and red 
racer — a ponderous flying juggernaut that 
growls and snorts and smells of the lower 
regions whenever it stands still, trembling 
in its anger and impatience to be off, while 
its owner, with some automobiling Marie, 
sits chatting on the cafe terrace over a cool- 
ing drink. The two are covered with dust 
and very thirsty ; Marie wears a long dust- 
colored ulster, and he a wind-proof coat and 
high boots. Meanwhile, the locomotive- 
like affair at the curbstone is working itself 
into a boiling rage, until finally the brave 
chauffeur and his chic companion prepare 

to depart. Marie adjusts her white lace 
veil, with its goggles, and the chauffeur 
puts on his. own mask as he climbs in ; a 
roar— a snort, a cloud of blue gas, and they 
are gone ! 

There are other enthusiasts — those who 
go up in balloons ! 

"Ah, you should go ballooning!" one 
cries enthusiastically, "to be 'en ballon' — so 
poetic — so fin de siecle ! It is a fantaisie 
charmante ! " 

In a balloon one forgets the world — one 
is no longer a part of it —no longer mortal. 
What romance there is in going up above 
everything with the woman one loves — 
comrades in danger — the ropes — the wicker 
cage — the ceiling of stars above one and 
Paris below no bigger than a gridiron ! 
Paris ! lost for the time from one's memory. 
How chic to shoot straight up among the 
drifting clouds and forget the sordid little 
world, even the memory of one's intrigues ! 

" Enfin seuls," they say to each other, as 

the big Frenchman and the chic Parisienne 

countess peer down over the edge of the 

basket, sipping a little chartreuse from the 


same traveling cup ; she, with the black hair 
and white skin, and gowned "en ballon " in 
a costume by Paillard ; he in his peajacket 
buttoned close under his heavy beard. 
They seem to brush through and against 
the clouds ! A gentle breath from heaven 
makes the basket decline a little and the 
ropes creak against the hardwood clinch 
blocks. It grows colder, and he wraps her 
closer in his own coat. 

"Courage, my child," he says; "see, we 
have gone a great distance ; to-morrow 
before sundown we shall descend in Bel- 

" Horrible ! " cries the Countess ; " I do 
not like those Belgians." 

" Ah ! but you shall see, Therese, one 
shall go where one pleases soon ; we are 
patient, we aeronauts; we shall bring 
credit to La Belle France; we have cour- 
age and perseverance; we shall give many 
dinners and weep over the failures of 
our brave comrades, to make the dirigi- 
ble balloon ' pratique.' We shall succeed! 
Then Voila ! our dejeuner in Paris and our 
dinner where we will." 

Th€rese taps her polished nails against 
the edge of the wicker cage and hums a 
little chansonette. 

" Je t'aime " — she murmurs. 

I did not see this myself, and I do not 
know the fair Therese or the gentleman 
who buttons his coat under his whiskers ; 
but you should have heard one of these 
ballooning enthusiasts tell it to me in the 
Taverne du Pantheon the other night. His 
only regret seemed to be that he, too, could 
not have a dirigible balloon and a countess 
— on ten francs a week ! 




Drunkards are not frequent sights in the 
Quarter ; and yet when these people do 
get drunk, they become as irresponsible as 
maniacs. Excitable to a degree even when 
sober, these most wretched among the poor 
when drunk often appear in front of a cafe 
— gaunt, wild-eyed, haggard, and filthy — 
singing in boisterous tones or reciting to 
you with tense voices a jumble of meaning- 
less thoughts. 

The man with the matted hair, and toes 
out of his boots, will fold his arms melo- 
dramatically, and regard you for some mo- 
ments as you sit in front of him on the 
terrace. Then he will vent upon you a 
torrent of abuse, ending in some jumble of 
socialistic ideas of his own concoction. 

When he has finished, he will fold his 
arms again and move on to the next table. 
He is crazy with absinthe, and no one pays 
any attention to him. On he strides up the 
"Boul' Miche,' past the cafes, continuing 
his ravings. As long as he is moderately 
peaceful and confines his wandering brain 
to gesticulations and speech, he is let alone 
by the police. 

You will see sometimes a man and a 
woman — a teamster out of work or with 
his wages for the day, and with him a 
creature — a blear-eyed, slatternly looking 
woman, in a filthy calico gown. The man 
clutches her arm, as they sing and stagger 
up past the cafes. The woman holds in 
her claw-like hand a half-empty bottle of 
cheap red wine. Now and then they stop 
and share it ; the man staggers on ; the 
woman leers and dances and sings ; a crowd 
forms about them. Some years ago this 
poor girl sat on Friday afternoons in the 
Luxembourg Gardens — her white parasol 
on her knees, her dainty, white kid-slippered 
feet resting on the little stool which the old 
lady, who rents the chairs, used to bring 

her. She was regarded 
as a bonne camarade in 
those days among the 
students — one of the idols 
of the Quarter ! But she 
became impossible, and 
then an outcast ! That 
women should become 
outcasts through the 
hopelessness of their po- 
sition or the breaking down of their brains 
can be understood, but that men of ability 
should sink into the dregs and stay there 
seems incredible. But it is often so. 

Near the rue Monge there is a small cafe 
and restaurant, a place celebrated for its 
onion soup and its chicken. From the 
tables outside, one can see into the small 
kitchen, with its polished copper sauce- 
pans hanging about the grill. 

Lachaume, the painter, and I were chat- 
ting at one of its little tables, he over an 
absinthe and I over a coffee and cognac. I 
had dined early this fresh October evening, 
enjoying to the full the bracing coolness of 
the air, pungent with the odor of dry leaves 

and the faint smell of burning brush. The 
world was hurrying by — in twos and threes 
— hurrying to warm cafes, to friends, to 
lovers. The breeze at twilight set the dry 
leaves shivering. The sky was turquoise. 
The yellow glow from the shop windows — 
the L blue-white sparkle of electricity like 
pendant diamonds — made the Quarter seem 
fuller of life than ever. These fall days 
make the little ouvrieres trip along from 
their work with rosy cheeks, and put hap- 
piness and ambition into one's very soul. 

Soon the winter will come, with all the 
boys back from their country haunts, and 
Celeste and Mimi from Ostende. How gay 
it will be — this 
Quartier Latin 
then! How gay 
it always is in 
winter — and then 
the rainy season. 
Ah ! but one can 
not have every- 
thing. Thus it 
was that La- 
chaume and I 


- • '■ ■-■"'■ -•■"■ -."■■ - 

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V e5I v 

P^w^^ mF 

Hi mm* il 

; .. ...... ... 


sat talking, when suddenly a spectre passed 
— a spectre of a man, his face silent, white, 
and pinched — drawn like a mummy's. 

He stopped and supported his shrunken 
frame wearily on his crutches, and leaned 
against a neighboring wall. He made no 
sound — simply gazed vacantly, with the 
timidity of some animal, at the door of the 
small kitchen aglow with the light from 
the grill. He made no effort to approach 
the door ; only leaned against the gray 
wall and peered at it patiently. 

"A beggar," I said to Lachaume ; "poor 

"Ah! old Pochard — yes, poor devil, and 
once one of the handsomest men in Paris." 

" What wrecked him ? " I asked. 

" What I'm drinking now, mon ami." 


"Yes — absinthe! He looks older than I 
do, does he not?" continued Lachaume, 
lighting a fresh cigarette, "and yet I'm 
twenty years his senior. You see, I sip 
mine — he drank his by the goblet," 
and my friend leaned forward and poured 
the contents of the carafe in a tiny trickling 


stream over the sugar 
lying in its perforated 

" Ah ! those were 
great days when Po- 
chard was the life 
of the Bullier," he 
went on; "I re- 
member the night 
he won ten thou- 
j sand francs from 
the Russian. It 
didn't last long; Camille Leroux had her 
share of it — nothing ever lasted long with 
Camille. He was once courrier to an Aus- 
trian Baron, I remember. The old fellow 
used to frequent the Quarter in summer, 
years ago — it was his hobby. Pochard was 
a great favorite in those days, and the Baron 
liked to go about in the Quarter with him, 
and of course Pochard was in his glory. He 
would persuade the old nobleman to prolong 
his vacation here. Once the Baron stayed 
through the winter and fell ill, and a little 
couturiere in the rue de Rennes, whom the 
old fellow fell in love with, nursed him. He 


died the summer following, at Vienna, and 
left her quite a little property near Amiens. 
He was a good old Baron, a charitable 
old fellow among the needy, and a good 
bohemian besides ; and he did much for 
Pochard, but he could not keep him 
sober ! " 

" After the old man's death," my friend 
continued, " Pochard drifted from bad to 
worse, and finally out of the Quarter, 
somewhere into misery on the other side 
of the Seine. No one heard of him for 
a few years, until he was again recognized 
as being the same Pochard returned again 
to the Quarter. He was hobbling about on 
crutches just as you see him there. And 
now, do you know what he does ? Get up 
from where you are sitting," said La- 
chaume, "and look into the back kitchen. 
Is he not standing there by the door — 
they are handing him a small bundle ? " 

"Yes," said I, " something wrapped in 

" Do you know what is in it ?— the carcass 
of the chicken you have just finished, and 
which the garcon carried away. Pochard 

IF di*m \ 


J]f l| SSS5S5C- 

saw you eating it half an hour ago as he 
passed. It was for that he was waiting." 

"To eat?" I asked. 

"No, to sell," Lachaume replied, "to- 
gether with the other bones he is able to col- 
lect — for soup in some poorest resort down 
by the river, where the boatmen and the 
gamins go. The few sous he gets will buy 
Pochard a big glass, a lump of sugar, and 
a spoon ; into the goblet, in some equally 
dirty 'boite,' they will pour him out his 
green treasure of absinthe. Then Pochard 
will forget the day — perhaps he will dream 
of the Austrian Baron — and try and forget 
Camille Leroux. Poor devil ! " 

Marguerite Girardet, the model, also told 
me between poses in the studio the other 
day of just such a "pauvre homme " she 
once knew. "When he was young," she 
said, " he won a second prize at the Con- 
servatoire, and afterward played first violin 
at the Comique. Now he plays in front of 
the cafes, like the rest, and sometimes 
poses for the head of an old man ! 

" Many grow old so young," she con- 
tinued ; " I knew a little model once with 

a beautiful figure, absolutely comme un 
bijou— pretty, too, and had she been a 
sensible girl, as I often told her, she could 
still have earned her ten francs a day 
posing ; but she wanted to dine all the 
time with this and that one, and pose too, 
and in three months all her fine " svelte" 
lines that made her a valuable model among 
the sculptors were gone. You see, I have 
posed all my life in the studios, and I am 
over thirty now, and you know I work hard, 
but I have kept my fine lines — because I go 
to bed early and eat and drink little. Then 
I have much to do at home ; my husband and 
I for years have had a comfortable home ; 
we take a great deal of pride in it, and it 
keeps me very busy to keep everything in 
order, for I pose very early some mornings 
and then go back and get dejeuner, and 
then back to pose again. 

" In the summer," she went on, "we 
take a little place outside of Paris for a 
month, down the Seine, where my husband 
brings his work with him ; he is a repairer 
of fans and objets d'art. You should come 
in and see us some time ; it is quite near 


where you painted last summer. Ah yes," 
she exclaimed, as she drew her pink toes 
under her, " I love the country ! Last year 
I posed nearly two months for Monsieur 
Z., the painter — en plein air ; my skin was 
not as white as it is now, I can tell you — I 
was absolutely like an Indian ! 

"Once" — and Marguerite smiled at the 
memory of it— "I went to England to pose 
for a painter well known there. It was 
an important tableau, and I stayed there 
six months. It was a horrible place to 
me — I was always cold — the fog was so 
thick one could hardly see in winter 
mornings going to the studio. Besides, I 
could get nothing good to eat ! He was a 
celebrated painter, a 'Sir,' and lived with 

his family in a big stone house with a gar- 
den. We had tea and cakes at five in the 
studio — always tea, tea, tea ! — I can tell 
you I used to long for a good bottle of 
Madame Giraud's vin ordinaire, and a 
poulet. So I left and came back to Paris. 
Ah! quelle place! that Angleterre ! JPetais 
toujours, toujours triste la ! In Paris I 
make a good living ; ten francs a day — 
that's not bad, is it ? and my time is taken 
often a year ahead. I like to pose for the 
painters — the studios are cleaner than those 
of the sculptor's. Some of the sculptors' 
studios are so dirty — clay and dust over 
everything! Did you see Fabien's studio 
the other day when I posed for him ? You 
thought it dirty ? Tiens ! — you should have 
seen it last year when he was working on 
the big group for the Exposition ! It is 
clean now compared with what it was. 
You see, I go to my work in the plainest 
of clothes — a cheap print dress and every- 
thing of the simplest I can make, for in 
half an hour, left in those studios, they 
would be fit only for the blanchisseuse — 
the wax and dust are in and over every- 

thing ! There is no time to change when 
one has not the time to go home at mid-day." 

And so I learned much of the good sense 
and many of the economies in the life of this 
most celebrated model. You can see her 
superb figure wrought in marble and bronze 
by some of the most famous of modern. 
French sculptors all over Paris. 

There is another type of model you will 
see, too — one who rang my bell one sunny 
morning in response to a note written by 
my good friend, the sculptor, for whom this 
little Parisienne posed. 

She came without her hat — this "vrai 
type" — about seventeen years of age — 
with exquisite features, her blue eyes shi- 
ning under a wealth of delicate blonde 
hair arranged in the prettiest of fashions — 
a little white bow tied jauntily at her throat, 
and her exquisitely delicate, strong young 
figure clothed in a simple black dress. 
She had about her such a frank, child- 
like air ! Yes, she posed for so and so, 
and so and so, but not many ; she liked 
it better than being in a shop ; and it was 
far more independent, for one could go about 


and see one's friends — and there were many 
of her girl friends living on the same street 
where this chic demoiselle lived. 

At noon my drawing was finished. As 
she sat buttoning her boots, she looked up 
at me innocently, slipped her five francs for 
the morning's work in her reticule, and said : 

" I live with mama, and mama never 
gives me any money to spend on my- 
self. This is Sunday and a holiday, so I 
shall go with Henriette and her brother to 
Vincennes. It is delicious there under the 

It would have been quite impossible for 
me to have gone with them — I was not even 
invited ; but this very serious and good little 
Parisienne, who posed for the figure with 
quite the same unconsciousness as she would 
have handed you your change over the 
counter of some stuffy little shop, went to 
Vincennes with Henriette and her brother, 
where they had a beautiful day — scrambling 
up the paths and listening to the band — all 
at the enormous expense of the artist ; and 
this was how this good little Parisienne 
managed to save five francs in a single day ! 

There are old-men models who knock at 
your studio too, and who are celebrated for 
their tangled gray locks, which they immedi- 
ately uncover as you open your door. These 
unkempt-looking Father Times and Methu- 
selahs prowl about the staircases of the 
different ateliers daily. So do little chil- 
dren—mostly Italians and all filthily dirty ; 
swarthy, black-eyed, gypsy-looking girls 
and boys of from twelve to fifteen years of 
age, and Italian mothers holding small 
children — itinerant madonnas. These are 
the poorer class of models — the riff-raff of 
the Quarter — who get anywhere from a few 
sous to a few francs for a seance. 

And there are four-footed models, too, 
for I know a kindly old horse who has 
served in many a studio and who has car- 
ried a score of the famous generals of the 
world and Jeanne d'Arcs to battle — in many 
a modern public square. 

Chacun son metier ! 




N this busy Quarter, 
where so many 
people are con- 
fined throughout 
the day in work- 
shops and studios, 
a breathing-space 
becomes a neces- 
sity. The gardens 
of the Luxem- 
bourg, brilliant in 
flowers and laid 
out in the. Renais- 
sance, with shady 
groves and long 
avenues of chest- 
nut-trees stretching up to the Place de 
TObservatoire, afford the great breathing- 
ground for the Latin Quarter. 
If one had but an hour to spend in the 

Quartier Latin, one could not find a more 
interesting and representative sight of stu- 
dent life than between the hours of four and 
five on Friday afternoon, when the military- 
band plays in the Luxembourg Gardens. 
This is the afternoon when Bohemia is on 
parade. Then every one flocks here to see 
one's friends — and a sort of weekly reception 
for the Quarter is held. The walks about 
the band-stand are thronged with students 
and girls, and hundreds of chairs are filled 
with an audience of the older people — shop- 
keepers and their families, old women in 
white lace caps, and gray-haired old men, 
many in straight-brimmed high hats of a 
mode of twenty years past. Here they sit 
and listen to the music under the cool 
shadow of the trees, whose rich foliage 
forms an arbor overhead — a roof of green 
leaves, through which the sunbeams stream 
and in which the fat, gray pigeons find a 

There is a booth near-by where waffles, 

cooked on a small oven in the rear, are 

sold. In front are a dozen or more tables 

for ices and drinkables. Every table and 



chair is taken within hearing distance of 
the band. When these musicians of the 
army of France arrive, marching in twos 
from their barracks to the stand, it is al- 
ways the signal for that genuine enthusi- 
asm among the waiting crowd which one 
sees between the French and their soldiers. 

If you chance to sit among the groups at 
the little tables, and watch the passing 
throng in front of you, you will see some 
queer "types," many of them seldom en 
evidence except on these Friday afternoons 
in the Luxembourg. Buried, no doubt, in 
some garret hermitage or studio, they 
emerge thus weekly to greet silently the 
passing world. 

A tall poet stalks slowly by, reading in- 
tently, as he walks, a well-worn volume of 
verses — his faded straw hat shading the 
tip of his long nose. Following him, a boy 
of twenty, delicately featured, with that 
purity of expression one sees in the faces 
of the good — the result of a life, perhaps, 
given to his ideal in art. He wears his hair 
long and curling over his ears, with a 
long stray wisp over one eye, the whole 

cropped evenly at the back as it reaches 
his black velvet collar. He wears, too, a 
dove-gray vest of fine corduroy, buttoned 
behind like those of the clergy, and a 
velvet tam-o'-shanter-like cap, and carries 
between his teeth a small pipe with a long 
goose-quill stem. You can readily see that 
to this young man with high ideals there is 
only one corner of the world worth living 
in, and that lies between the Place de l'Ob- 
servatoire and the Seine. 

Three students pass, in wide broad- 
cloth trousers, gathered in tight at the 
ankles, and wearing wide -brimmed black 
hats. Hanging on the arm of one of the trio is 
a short snub-nosed girl, whose Cleo-Merodic 
hair, flattened in a bandeau over her ears, 
not only completely conceals them, but all 
the rest of her face, except her two merry 
black eyes and her saucy and neatly rouged 
lips. She is in black bicycle bloomers and 
a white, short duck jacket — a straw hat 
with a wide blue ribbon band, and a fluffy 
piece of white tulle tied at the side of her 

The throng moves slowly by you. It is 

impossible, in such a close crowd, to be in 
a hurry ; besides, one never is here. 

Near-by sit two old ladies, evidently con- 
cierges from some atelier court. One holds 
the printed program of the music, cut care- 
fully from her weekly newspaper; it is 
cheaper than buying one for two sous, and 
these old concierges are economical. 

In this Friday gathering you will recog- 
nize dozens of faces which you have seen at 
the "Bal Bullier" and the cafes. 

The girl in the blue tailor-made dress, 
with the little dog, who you remember dined 
the night before at the Pantheon, is walking 
now arm in arm with a tall man in black, a 
mourning band about his hat. The girl is 
dressed in black, too — a mark of respect to 
her ami by her side. The dog, who is so 
small that he slides along the walk every 
time his chain is pulled, is now tucked 
under her arm. 

One of the tables near the waffle stand is 
taken by a group of six students and four 
girls. All of them have arrived at the table 
in the last fifteen minutes — some alone, some 
in twos. The girl in the scarlet gown and 

white kid slippers, who came with the queer- 
looking "type" with the pointed beard, is 
Yvonne Gallois — a bonne camarade. She 
keeps the rest in the best of spirits, for 
she is witty, this Yvonne, and a great fa- 
vorite with the crowd she is with. She is 
pretty, too, and has a whole-souled good- 
humor about her that makes her ever wel- 
come. The fellow she came with is Delmet 
the architect — a great wag — lazy, but full 
of fun — and genius. 

The little girl sitting opposite Yvonne is 
Claire Dumont. She is explaining a very 
sad " histoire " to the "type" next to her, 
intense in the recital of her woes. Her 
alert, nervous little face is a study; when 
words and expression fail, she shrugs her 
delicate shoulders, accenting every sen- 
tence with her hands, until it seems as 
if her small, nervous frame could express 
no more — and all about her little dog 

" Yes, the villain of a concierge at Ed- 
mond's studio swore at him twice, and 
Sunday, when Edmond and I were break- 
fasting late, the old beast saw * Loisette ' 













on the stairs and threw water over her ; 
she is a sale bete, that grosse femme ! She 
shall see what it will cost her, the old miser ; 
and you know I have always _ been most 
amiable with her. She is jealous of me — 
that is it— oh ! I am certain of it. Because 
I am young and happy. Jealous of me ! 
that's funny, is it not ? The old pig! Poor 
c Loisette ' — she shivered all night with fright 
and from being wet. Edmond and I are 
going to find another place. Yes, she shall 
see what it will be there without us — with 
no one to depend upon for her snuff and her 
wine. If she were concierge at Edmond's 
old atelier she would be treated like that 
horrid old Madame Fouquet." 

The boys in the atelier over her window 
hated this old Madame Fouquet, I remem- 
ber. She was always prying about and 
complaining, so they fished up her pet 
gold-fish out of the aquarium on her 
window-sill, and fried them on the atelier 
stove, and put them back in the window 
on a little plate all garnished with carrots. 
She swore vengeance and called in the 
police, but to no avail. One day they 

fished up the parrot in its cage, and the 
green bird that screamed and squawked 
continually met a speedy and painless death 
and went off to the taxidermist. Then the 
cage was lowered in its place with the door 
left ajar, and the old woman felt sure that 
her pet had escaped and would some day 
find his way back to her — a thing this gar- 
rulous bird would never have thought of 
doing had he had any say in the matter. 

So the old lady left the door of the cage 
open for days in the event of his return, and 
strange to tell, one morning Madame Fou- 
quet got up to quarrel with her next-door 
neighbor, and, to her amazement, there was 
her green pet on his perch in his cage. She 
called to him, but he did not answer ; he 
simply stood on his wired legs and fixed his 
glassy eyes on her, and said not a word — 
while the gang of Indians in the windows 
above yelled themselves hoarse. 

It was just such a crowd as this that in- 
itiated a "nouveau" once in one of the 
ateliers. They stripped the new-comer, 
and, as is often the custom on similar fes- 
tive occasions, painted him all over with 

Drawing by SANCHA 
PARIS, 1901 

fished up the parrot in its cage, and the 
green bird that screamed and squawked 
rinually met a speedy and painless death 
and went off to the taxidermist. Then the 
cage was lowered in its place with the door 
left ajar, and the old woman felt sure that 
her pet had escaped and would some day 
find his way back to her— a thing this gar- 
rulous bird would never have thought of 
doing had he had any say in the matter. 
So the old lady left the door of the cage 

strange to tell, one morning Madame Fou- 
quet got u^W^iirreWTSi her next-door 
neighbor, and^hlr^amazement, there was 
her green pet on his perch in his cage. She 
called to him, but he did not answer ; he 
simply stood on his wired legs and fixed his 
glassy eyes on her, and said not a word- 
while the gang oMndians in the windows 
above yelled themselves hoarse. 

It was just such a crowd as this that in- 
itiated a "nouveau" once in one of the 
at They stripped the new-comer, 

en the custom on similar fes- 
e occa; linted him all over with 

*>; » 


sketches, done in the powdered water-colors 
that come in glass jars. They are cheap 
and cover a lot of surface, so that the gen- 
tleman in question looked like a human pic- 
ture-gallery. After the ceremony, he was 
put in a hamper and deposited, in the morn- 
ing, in the middle of the Pont des Artz, 
where he was subsequently found by the 
police, who carted him off in a cab. 

But you must see more of this vast gar- 
den of the Luxembourg to appreciate truly 
its beauty and its charm. Filled with beau- 
tiful sculpture in bronze and marble, with 
its musee of famous modern pictures bought 
by the Government, with flower-beds bril- 
liant in geraniums and fragrant in roses, 
with the big basin spouting a jet of water 
in its center, where the children sail their 
boats, and with that superb " Fontaine de 
Medicis" at the end of a long, rectangular 
basin of water — dark as some pool in a forest 
brook, the green vines trailing about its 
sides, shaded by the rich foliage of the trees 

On the other side of the Luxembourg 
you will find a garden of roses, with a 


rich bronze group of Greek runners in the 
center, and near it, back of the long marble 
balustrade, a croquet ground — a favorite 
spot for several veteran enthusiasts who 
play here regularly, surrounded for hours 
by an interested crowd who applaud and 
cheer the participants in this passe sport. 

This is another way of spending an after- 
noon at the sole cost of one's leisure. It 
takes but little to amuse these people ! 

Often at the Punch and Judy show near- 
by, you will see two old gentlemen, — who 
may have watched this same Punch and 
Judy show when they were youngsters, — 
and who have been sitting for half an hour, 
waiting for the curtain of the miniature 
theater to rise. It is popular — this small 
"Theatre Guignol," and the benches in 
front are filled with the children of rich and 
poor, who scream with delight and kick 
their little, fat bare legs at the first shrill 
squeak of Mr. Punch. The three who com- 
pose the staff of this tiny attraction have 
been long in its service — the old harpist, 
and the good wife of the showman who 
knows every child in the neighborhood, and 

her husband who is Mr. Punch, the hang- 
man, and the gendarme, and half a dozen 
other equally historical personages. A 
thin, sad-looking man, this husband, gray- 
haired, with a careworn look in his deep- 
sunken eyes, who works harder hourly, 
daily, yearly, to amuse the heart of a child 
than almost any one I know. 

The little box of a theater is stifling hot 
in summer, and yet he must laugh and 
scream and sing within it, while his good 
wife collects the sous, talking all the while 
to this and to that child whom she has 
known since its babyhood; chatting with 
the nurses decked out in their gay-colored, 
Alsatian bows, the ribbons reaching nearly 
to the ground. 

A French nurse is a gorgeous spectacle 
of neatness and cleanliness, and many of 
the younger ones, fresh from country homes 
in Normandy and Brittany, with their rosy 
cheeks, are pictures of health. Wherever 
you see a nurse, you will see a "piou-piou " 
not far away, which is a very belittling word 
for the red-trousered infantryman of the 
Republique Francaise. 

Surrounding the Palais du Luxembourg, 
these "piou-pious," less fortunate for the 
hour, stand guard in the small striped 
sentry-boxes, musket at side, or pace stol- 
idly up and down the flagged walk. Marie, 
at the moment, is no doubt with the chil- 
dren of the rich Count, in a shady spot 
near the music. How cruel is the fate of 
many a gallant "piou-piou " ! 

Farther down the gravel-walk strolls a 
young Frenchman and his fiancee — the 
mother of his betrothed inevitably at her 
side ! It is under this system of rigid cha- 
peronage that the young girl of France is 
given in marriage. It is not to be wondered 
at that many of them marry to be free, and 
that many of the happier marriages have 
begun with an elopement ! 

The music is over, and the band is filing 
out, followed by the crowd. A few linger 
about the walks around the band-stand to 
chat. The old lady who rents the chairs 
is stacking them up about the tree-trunks, 
and long shadows across the walks tell of 
the approaching twilight. Overhead, among 
the leaves, the pigeons coo. For a few mo- 

ments the sun bathes the great garden in a 
pinkish glow, then drops slowly, a blood- 
red disk, behind the trees. The air grows 
chilly ; it is again the hour to dine — the hour 
when Paris wakes. 

In the smaller restaurants of the Quar- 
ter one often sees some strange contrasts 
among these true bohemians, for the Latin 
Quarter draws its habitues from every part 
of the globe. They are not all French — 
these happy-go-lucky fellows, who live for 
the day and let the morrow slide. You will 
see many Japanese — some of them painters 
— many of them taking courses in political 
economy, or in law ; many of them titled 
men of high rank in their own country, 
studying in the schools, and learning, too, 
with that thoroughness and rapidity which 
are ever characteristic of their race. You 
will find, too, Brazilians; gentlemen from 
Haiti of darker hue ; Russians, Poles, and 
Spaniards — men and women from every 
clime and every station in life. They adapt 
themselves to the Quarter and become a 
part of this big family of Bohemia easily 
and naturally. 


In this daily atmosphere only the girl- 
student from our own shores seems out of 
place. She will hunt for some small res- 
taurant, sacred in its exclusiveness and 
known only to a dozen bon camarades of 
the Quarter. Perhaps this girl-student, it 
may be, from the West and her cousin from 
the East will discover some such cosy little 
boite on their way back from their atelier. 
To two other equally adventurous female 
minds they will impart this newest find ; 
after that you will see the four dining there 
nightly together, as safe, I assure you, 
within these walls of Bohemia as they 
would be at home rocking on their Aunt 
Mary's porch. 

There is, of course, considerable awk- 
wardness between these bon camarades, to 
whom the place really belongs, and these 
very innocent new-comers, who seek a table 
by themselves in a corner under the few 
trees in front of the small restaurant. And 
yet every one is exceedingly polite to them. 
Madame the patronne hustles about to 
see that the dinner is warm and nicely 
served ; and Henriette, who is waiting on 


them, none the less attentive, although she 
is late for her own dinner, which she will sit 
down to presently with madame the pa- 
tronne, the good cook, and the other girls 
who serve the small tables. 

This later feast will be augmented per- 
haps by half the good boys and girls who 
have been dining at the long table. Per- 
haps they will all come in and help shell 
the peas for to-morrow's dinner. And yet 
this is a public place, where the painters 
ce»me, and where one pays only for what 
one orders. It is all very interesting to the 
four American girls, who are dining at the 
small table. " It is so thoroughly bohe- 
mian ! " they exclaim. 

But what must Mimi think of these silent 
and exclusive strangers, and what, too, 
must the tall girl in the bicycle bloomers 
think, and the little girl who has been ill 
and who at the moment is dining with 
Renould, the artist, and whom every one — 
even to the cook, is so glad to welcome 
back after her long illness? There is an 
unsurmountable barrier between the Amer- 
icans at the little table in the corner and 


that jolly crowd of good and kindly people 
at the long one, for Mimi and Henriette 
and the little girl who has been so ill, 
and the French painters and sculptors 
with them, cannot understand either the 
language of these strangers or their views 
of life. 

" Florence ! " exclaims one of the stran- 
gers in a whisper, " do look at that queer 
little ' type ' at the long table— the tall girl 
in black actually kissed him ! " 

"You don't mean it!" 

" Yes, I do— just now. Why, my dear, I 
saw it plainly ! " 

Poor culprits ! There is no law against 
kissing in the open air in Paris, and be- 
sides, the tall girl in black has known the 
little "type" for a Parisienne age— thirty 
days or less. 

The four innocents, who have coughed 
through their soup and whispered through 
the rest of the dinner, have now finished 
and are leaving, but if those at the long 
table notice their departure, they do not 
show it. In the Quarter it is considered 
the height of rudeness to stare. You will 

find these Suzannes and Marcelles exceed- 
ingly well-bred in the little refinements of 
life, and you will note a certain innate dig- 
nity and kindliness in their bearing toward 
others, which often makes one wish to 
uncover his head in their presence. 







HERE are many streets 
of the Quarter as quiet 
as those of a country 
village. Some of them, 
like the rue Vaugirard, 
lead out past gloomy 
slaughter-houses and stables, through 
desolate sections of vacant lots, littered 
with the ruins of factory and foundry whose 
tall, smoke-begrimed chimneys in the dark 
stand like giant sentries, as if pointing a 
warning finger to the approaching pedes- 
trian, for these ragged edges of the Quar- 
ter often afford at night a lurking-ground 
for footpads. 

In just such desolation there lived a 
dozen students, in a small nest of studios 
that I need not say were rented to them at 

a price within their ever-scanty means. It 
was marveled at among the boys in the 
Quarter that any of these exiles lived to 
see the light of another day, after wander- 
ing back at all hours of the night to their 

Possibly their sole possessions consisted 
of the clothes they had on, a few bad pic- 
tures, and their several immortal geniuses. 
That the gentlemen with the sand-bags 
knew of this I am convinced, for the stu- 
dents were never molested. Verily, Provi- 
dence lends a strong and ready arm to the 
drunken man and the fool ! 

The farther out one goes on the rue Vau- 
girard, the more desolate and forbidding 
becomes this long highway, until it termi- 
nates at the fortifications, near which is a 
huge, open field, kept clear of such perma- 
nent buildings as might shelter an enemy 
in time of war. Scattered over this space 
are the hovels of squatters and gipsies- 
fortune -telling, horse -trading vagabonds, 
whose living-vans at certain times of the 
year form part of the smaller fairs within 
the Quarter. 


And very small and unattractive little fairs 
they are, consisting of half a dozen or more 
wagons, serving as a yearly abode for these 
shiftless people ; illumined at night by the 
glare of smoking oil torches. There is, 
moreover, a dingy tent with a half-drawn 
red curtain that hides the fortune-telling 
beauty ; and a traveling shooting-gallery, 
so short that the muzzle of one's rifle nearly 
rests upon the painted lady with the sheet- 
iron breastbone, centered by a pinhead of 
a bull's-eye which never rings. There is 
often a small carousel, too, which is not 
only patronized by the children, but often 
by a crowd of students — boys and girls, 
who literally turn the merry-go-round into 
a circus, and who for the time are cheered 
to feats of bareback riding by the enthusi- 
astic bystanders. 

These little Quarter fetes are far different 
from the great fete de Neuilly across the 
Seine, which begins at the Porte Maillot, 
and continues in a long, glittering avenue 
of side-shows, with mammoth carousels, 
bizarre in looking-glass panels and golden 
figures. Within the circle of all this throne- 

like gorgeousness, a horse -power organ 
shakes the very ground with its clarion 
blasts, while pink and white wooden pigs, 
their tails tied up in bows of colored rib- 
bons, heave and swoop round and round, 
their backs loaded with screaming girls and 
shouting men. 

It was near this very same Port Maillot, 
in a colossal theater, built originally for the 
representation of one of the Kiralfy ballets, 
that a fellow student and myself went over 
from the Quarter one night to "supe" in a 
spectacular and melodramatic pantomime, 
entitled " Afrique a Paris." We were in- 
vited by the sole proprietor and manager of 
the show— an old circus-man, and one of the 
shrewdest, most companionable, and intel- 
ligent of men, who had traveled the world 
over. He spoke no language but his own 
unadulterated American. This, with his 
dominant personality, served him wherever 
fortune carried him ! 

So, accepting his invitation to play al- 
ternately the dying soldier and the pursu- 
ing cannibal under the scorching rays of a 
tropical limelight, and with an old pair of 

trousers and a flannel shirt wrapped in a 
newspaper, we presented ourselves at the 
appointed hour, at the edge of the hostile 

Here we found ourselves surrounded by a 
horde of savages who needed no grease- 
paint to stain their ebony bodies, and many 
of whose grinning countenances I had often 
recognized along our own Tenderloin. Be- 
sides, there were cowboys and "greasers" 
and diving elks, and a company of French 
Zouaves; the latter, in fact, seemed to be 
the only thing foreign about the show. Our 
friend, the manager, informed us that he 
had thrown the entire spectacle together 

in about ten days, and that he had gath- 
ered with ease, in two, a hundred of those 
dusky warriors, who had left their coat- 
room and barber-shop jobs in New York 
to find themselves stranded in Paris. 

He was a hustler, this circus-man, and 
preceding the spectacle of the African war, 
he had entertained the audience with a 
short variety-show, -to brace the spectacle. 
He insisted on bringing us around in front 
and giving us a box, so we could see for 
ourselves how good it really was. 

During this forepart, and after some 
clever high trapeze work, the sensation 
of the evening was announced — a Signore, 
with an unpronounceable name, would train 
a den often forest-bred lions ! 

When the orchestra had finished playing 
"The Awakening of the Lion," the curtain 
rose, disclosing the nerveless Signore in 
purple tights and high-topped boots. A 
long, portable cage had been put together 
on the stage during the intermission, and 
within it the ten pacing beasts. There is 
something terrifying about the roar of a 
lion as it begins with its high-keyed moan, 

and descends in scale to a hoarse roar that 
seems to penetrate one's whole nervous 

But the Signore did not seem to mind it ; 
he placed one foot on the sill of the safety- 
door, tucked his short riding-whip under 
his arm, pulled the latch with one hand, 
forced one knee in the slightly opened door, 
and sprang into the cage. Click ! went the 
iron door as it found its lock. Bang ! went 
the Signore's revolver, as he drove the snarl- 
ing, roaring lot into the corner of the cage. 
The smoke from his revolver drifted out 
through the bars ; the house was silent. 
The trainer walked slowly up to the fiercest 
lion, who reared against the bars as he ap- 
proached him, striking at the trainer with 
his heavy paws, while the others slunk into 
the opposite corner. The man's head was 
but half a foot now from the lion's ; he 
menaced the beast with the little riding- 
whip ; he almost, but did not quite strike him 
on the tip of his black nose that worked con- 
vulsively in rage. Then the lion dropped 
awkwardly, with a short growl, to his fore- 
legs, and slunk, with the rest, into the 

corner. The Signore turned and bowed. It 
was the little riding-whip they feared, for 
they had never gauged its sting. Not the 
heavy iron bar within reach of his hand, 
whose force they knew. The vast audience 
breathed easier. 

"An ugly lot," I said, turning to our friend 
the manager, who had taken his seat be- 
side me. 

"Yes," he mused, peering at the stage 
with his keen gray eyes ; " green stock, but 
a swell act, eh ? Wait for the grand finale. 
I've got a girl here who comes on and does 
art poses among the lions ; she's a dream 
— French, too !" 

A girl of perhaps twenty, enveloped in 
a bath gown, now appeared at the wings. 
The next instant the huge theater became 
dark, and she stood in full fleshings, in the 
center of the cage, brilliant in the rays of a 
powerful limelight, while the lions circled 
about her at the command of the trainer. 

"Ain't she a peach ?" said the manager, 

"Yes," said I, "she is. Has she been in 
the cages long?" I asked. 


"No, she never worked with the cats be- 
fore," he said; "she's new to the show 
business ; she said her folks live in Nantes. 
She worked here in a chocolate factory 
until she saw my 'ad' last week and joined 
my show. We gave her a rehearsal Mon- 
day and we put her on the bill next night. 
She's a good looker with plenty of grit, and 
is a winner with the bunch in front." 

"How did you get her to take the job?" 
I said. 

"Well," he replied, "she balked at the 
act at first, but I showed her two violet 
notes from a couple of swell fairies who 
wanted the job, and after that she signed 
for six weeks." 

"Who wrote the notes?" I said, query - 

"I wrote 'em!" he exclaimed dryly, and 
he bit the corner of his stubby mustache 
and smiled. "This is the last act in the 
olio, so you will have to excuse me. So 
long! " and he disappeared in the gloom. 

There are streets and boulevards in the 
Quarter, sections of which are alive with 


the passing throng and the traffic of carts 
and omnibuses. Then one will come to a 
long stretch of massive buildings, public 
institutions, silent as convents — their inter- 
minable walls flanking garden or court. 

The Boulevard St. Germain is just such a 
highway until it crosses the Boulevard St. 
Michel — the liveliest roadway of the Quar- 
ter. Then it seems to become suddenly 
inoculated with its bustle and life, and from 
there on is crowded with bourgeoise and 
animated with the commerce of market 
and shop. 

An Englishman once was so fired with a 
desire to see the gay life of the Latin Quar- 
ter that he rented a suite of rooms on this 
same Boulevard St. Germain at about the 
middle of this long, quiet stretch. Here he 
stayed a fortnight, expecting daily to see 
from his "chambers" the gaiety of a Bo- 
hemia of which he had so often heard. At 
the end of his disappointing sojourn, he 
returned to London, firmly convinced that 
the gay life of the Latin Quarter was a 
myth. It was to him. 

But the man from Denver, the "Steel 

King," and the two thinner gentlemen with 
the louis-lined waistcoats who accompanied 
him and whom Fortune had awakened in 
the far West one morning and had led them 
to "The Great Red Star copper mine" — a 
find which had ever since been a source of 
endless amusement to them — discovered 
the Quarter before they had been in Paris 
a day, and found it, too, "the best ever," 
as they expressed it. 

They did not remain long in Paris, this 
rare crowd of seasoned genials, for it was 
their first trip abroad and they had to see 
Switzerland and Vienna, and the Rhine ; 
but while they stayed they had a good time 
Every Minute. 

The man from Denver and the Steel King 
sat at one of the small tables, leaning over 
the railing at the "Bal Bullier," gazing at 
the sea of dancers. 

"Billy," said the man from Denver to the 
Steel King, "if they had this in Chicago 
they'd tear out the posts inside of fifteen 
minutes" — he wiped the perspiration from 
his broad forehead and pushed his twenty- 
dollar Panama on the back of his head. 


" Ain't it a sight ! " he mused, clinching 
the butt of his perfecto between his teeth. 
"Say! — say! it beats all I ever see," and 
he chuckled to himself, his round, genial 
face, with its double chin, wreathed in 

"Say, George!" he called to one of the 
1 copper twins,' "did you get on to that 
little one in black that just went by — well ! 
well ! ! well ! ! ! In a minute ! ! " 

Already the pile of saucers on their table 
reached a foot high — a record of refresh- 
ments for every Yvonne and Marcelle that 
had stopped in passing. Two girls ap- 

"Certainly, sit right down," cried the 
Steel King. "Here, Jack,"— this to the 
aged garcon, "smoke up ! and ask the ladies 
what they'll have " — all of which was unin- 
telligible to the two little Parisiennes and 
the garcon, but quite clear in meaning to 
all three. 

"Dis done, garcon ! " interrupted the taller 
of the two girls, "un cafe glace pour moi." 

"Et moi," answered her companion gayly, 
" Je prends une limonade !" 

"Here! Hold on!" thundered good-hu- 
moredly the man from Denver; "git 'em a 
good drink. Rye, garsong ! yes, that's it- 
whiskey — I see you're on, and two. Deux ! " 
he explains, holding up two fat fingers, "all 
straight, friend — two whiskeys with seltzer 
on the side — see ? Now go roll your hoop 
and git back with 'em." 

"Oh, non, monsieur!" cried the two Pa- 
risiennes in one breath; "whiskey! jamais! 
ca pique et c'est trop fort." 

At this juncture the flower woman arrived 
with a basketful of red roses. 

"Voulez-vous des fleurs, messieurs et 
mesdames?" she asked politely. 

"Certainly," cried the Steel King; "here, 
Maud and Mamie, take the lot," and he 
handed the two girls the entire contents 
of the basket. The taller buried her face 
for a moment in the red Jaqueminots and 
drank in their fragrance. When she looked 
up, two big tears trickled down to the cor- 
ners of her pretty mouth. In a moment 
more she was smiling ! The smaller girl 
gave a little cry of delight and shook her 
roses above her head as three other girls 


passed. Ten minutes later the two pos- 
sessed but a single rose apiece — they had 
generously given all the rest away. 

The "copper twins" had been oblivious 
of all this. They had been hanging over 
the low balustrade, engaged in a heart-to- 
heart talk with two pretty Quartier bru- 
nettes. It seemed to be really a case of 
love at first sight, carried on somewhat 
under difficulties, for the " copper twins" 
could not speak a word of French, and 
the English of the two chic brunettes was 
limited to " Oh, yes ! " " Vary well ! " " Good 
morning," " Good evening," and " I love 
you." The four held hands over the low 
railing, until the " copper twins " fairly 
steamed in talk ; warmed by the sun of 
gaiety and wet by several rounds of High- 
land dew, they grew sad and earnest, and 
got up and stepped all 
over the Steel King and _if 6te_ 

the man from Denver, Bj| 

and the two Parisiennes' Jm 

daintily slippered feet, in <.jm 

squeezing out past the Pp?^ 

group of round tables 

back of the balustrade, and down on to the 
polished floor — where they are speedily lost 
to view in the maze of dancers, gliding into 
the whirl with the two brunettes. When the 
waltz is over they stroll out with them into 
the garden, and order wine, and talk of 
changing their steamer date. 

The good American, with his spotless 
collar and his well -cut clothes, with his 
frankness and whole-souled generosity, is 
a study to the modern grisette. He seems 
strangely attractive to her, in contrast 
with a certain type of Frenchman, that is 
selfish, unfaithful, and mean — that jealousy 
makes uncompanionable and sometimes 
cruel. She will tell you that these pale, 
black -eyed, and black -bearded boulevar- 
diers are all alike — lazy and selfish ; so un- 
like many of the sterling, good fellows of 
the Quarter — Frenchmen of a different 
stamp, and there are many of these — rare, 
good Bohemians, with hearts and natures 
as big as all out-doors — "bons garcons," 
which is only another way of saying " gen- 


As you tramp along back to your quarters 
some rainy night you find many of the streets 
leading from the boulevards silent and badly 
lighted, except for some flickering lantern 
on the corner of a long block which sends 
the shadows scurrying across your path. 
You pass a student perhaps and a girl, 
hurrying home — a fiacre for a short distance 
is a luxury in the Quarter. Now you hear 
the click-clock of an approaching cab, the 
cocher half asleep on his box. The hood 
of the fiacre is up, sheltering the two inside 
from the rain. As the voiture rumbles by 
near a street-light, you catch a glimpse of 
a pink silk petticoat within and a pair of 
dainty, white kid shoes — and the glint of an 
officer's sword. 

Farther on, you pass a silent gendarme 
muffled in his night cloak ; a few doors far- 
ther on in a small cafe, a bourgeois couple, 
who have arrived on a late train no doubt 
to spend a month with relatives in Paris, 
are having a warming tipple before pro- 
ceeding farther in the drizzling rain. They 
have, of course, invited the cocher to drink 
with them. They have brought all their 

pets and nearly all their household goods — 
two dogs, three bird-cages, their tiny oc- 
cupants protected from the damp air by 
several folds of newspaper ; a cat in a stout 
paper box with air holes, and two trunks, 
well tied with rope. 

"Ah, yes, it has been a long journey !" 
sighs the wife. Her husband corroborates 
her, as they explain to the patronne of the 
cafe and to the cocher that they left their 
village at midday. Anything over two hours 
on the chemin-de-fer is considered a journey 
by these good French people ! 

As you continue on to your studio, you 
catch a glimpse of the lights of the Boule- 
vard Montparnasse. Next a cab with a 
green light rattles by ; then a ponderous 
two-wheeled cart lumbers along, piled high 
with red carrots as neatly arranged as 
cigars in a box— the driver asleep on his 
seat near his swinging lantern — and the 
big Normandy horses taking the way. It 
is late, for these carts are on their route to 
the early morning market — one of the great 
Halles. The tired waiters are putting up 
the shutters of the smaller cafes and stack- 
ing up the chairs. Now a cock crows lustily 
in some neighboring yard ; the majority at 
least of the Latin Quarter has turned in for 
the night. A moment later you reach your 
gate, feel instinctively for your matches. In 
the darkness of the court a friendly cat 
rubs her head contentedly against your leg. 
It is the yellow one that sleeps in the fur- 
niture factory, and you pick her up and 
carry her to your studio, where, a moment 
later, she is crunching gratefully the rem- 
nant of the beau maquereau left from your 
dejeuner — for charity begins at home. 



Scores of men, celebrated in art and in 
literature, have, for a longer or shorter per- 
iod of their lives, been bohemians of the 
Latin Quarter. And yet these years spent 
in cafes and in studios have not turned them 
out into the world a devil-me-care lot of 
dreamers. They have all marched and 
sung along the " Boul' Miche " ; danced at 
the " Bullier " ; starved, struggled, and lived 
in the romance of its life. It has all been a 
part of their education, and a very impor- 
tant part too, in the development of their 
several geniuses, a development which in 
later life has placed them at the head of 
their professions. These years of cama- 
raderie — of a life free from all convention- 
alities, in daily touch with everything about 
them, and untrammeled by public censure 
or the petty views of prudish or narrow 

minds, have left them free to cut a straight 
swath merrily toward the goal of their 
ideals, surrounded all the while by an 
atmosphere of art and good-fellowship that 
permeates the very air they breathe. 

If a man can work at all, he can work 
here, for between the working-hours he 
finds a life so charming, that once having 
lived it he returns to it again and again, as 
to an old love. 

How many are the romances of this stu- 
dent Quarter ! How many hearts have 
been broken or made glad ! How many 
brave spirits have suffered and worked on 
and suffered again, and at last won fame ! 
How many have failed ! We who come 
with a fresh eye know nothing of all that 
has passed within these quaint streets — 
only those who have lived in and through 
it know its full story. 

Pochard has seen it ; so has the little old 
woman who once danced at the opera; 
so have old Bibi La Puree, and Alphonse, 
the gray-haired garcon, and Mere Gaillard, 
the flower-woman. They have seen the 
gay boulevards and the cafes and genera- 

tions of grisettes, from the true grisette of 
years gone by, in her dainty white cap and 
simple dress turned low at the throat, to 
the tailor-made grisette of to-day. 

Yet the eyes of the little old woman still 
dance ; they have not grown tired of this 
ever-changing kaleidoscope of human na- 
ture, this paradise of the free, where many 
would rather struggle on half starved than 
live a life of luxury elsewhere. 

And the students are equally quixotic. I 
knew one once who lived in an air-castle of 
his own building — a tall, serious fellow, a 
sculptor, who always went tramping about 
in a robe resembling a monk's cowl, with 
his bare feet incased in coarse sandals ; only 
his art redeemed these eccentricities, for he 
produced in steel and ivory the most exqui- 
site statuettes. One at the Salon was the 
sensation of the day — a knight in full armor, 
scarcely half a foot in height, holding in his 
arms a nymph in flesh-tinted ivory, whose 
gentle face, upturned, gazed sweetly into 
the stern features behind the uplifted vizor ; 
and all so exquisitely carved, so alive, so 
human, that one could almost feel the ten- 

der heart of this fair lady beating against 
the cold steel breastplate. 

Another "bon garcon" — a painter whose 
enthusiasm for his art knew no bounds — 
craved to produce a masterpiece. This 
dreamer could be seen daily ferreting 
around the Quarter for a studio always 
bigger than the one he had. At last he 
found one that exactly fitted the require- 
ments of his vivid imagination — a studio 
with a ceiling thirty feet high, with win- 
dows like the scenic ones next to the stage 
entrances of the theaters. Here at last he 
could give full play to his brush — no subject 
seemed too big for him to tackle ; he would 
move in a canvas as big as a back flat to 
a third act, and commence on a "Fall of 
Babylon" or a "Carnage of Rome" with 
a nerve that was sublime ! The choking 
dust of the arena — the insatiable fury of the 
tigers — the cowering of hundreds of unfor- 
tunate captives — and the cruel multitude 
above, seated in the vast circle of the 
hippodrome — all these did not daunt his 

Once lie persuaded a venerable old abbe 

to pose for his portrait. The old gentleman 
came patiently to his studio and posed for 
ten days, at the end of which time the abbe 
gazed at the result and said things which I 
dare not repeat — for our enthusiast had so 
far only painted his clothes ; the face was 
still in its primary drawing. 

"The face I shall do in time," the en- 
thusiast assured the reverend man exci- 
tedly; "it is the effect of the rich color of 
your robe I wished to get. And may I ask 
your holiness to be patient a day longer 
while I put in your boots ?" 

"No, sir!" thundered the irate abbe. 
"Does monsieur think I am not a very 
busy man ?" 

Then softening a little, he said, with a 
smile : 

"I won't come any more, my friend. I'll 
send my boots around to-morrow by my 

But the longest red-letter day has its 
ending, and time and tide beckon one with 
the brutality of an impatient jailer. 

On my studio table is a well-stuffed en- 
velope containing the documents relative to 

my impending exile— a stamped card of my 
identification, bearing the number of my 
cell, a plan of the slave-ship, and six red 
tags for my baggage. 

The three pretty daughters of old Pere 
Valois know of my approaching departure, 
and say cheering things to me as I pass the 
concierge's window. 

Pere Valois stands at the gate and stops 
me with: "Is it true, monsieur, you are 
going Saturday?" 

"Yes," I answer; "unfortunately, it is 
quite true." 

The old man sighs and replies: "I once 
had to leave Paris myself"; looking at me 
as if he were speaking to an old resident. 
" My regiment was ordered to the colonies. 
It was hard, monsieur, but I did my duty." 

The morning of my sailing has arrived. 
The patron of the tobacco-shop, and ma- 
dame his good wife, and the wine merchant, 
and the baker along the little street with 
its cobblestone-bed, have all wished me 
"bon voyage," accompanied with many 
handshakings. It is getting late and Pere 
Valois has gone to hunt for a cab — a "gal- 

erie," as it is called, with a place for trunks 
on top. Twenty minutes go by, but no 
"galerie" is in sight. The three daughters 
of Pere Valois run in different directions to 
find one, while I throw the remaining odds 
and ends in the studio into my valise. At 
last there is a sound of grating wheels be- 
low on the gravel court. The "galerie" 
has arrived — with the smallest of the three 
daughters inside, all out of breath from her 
run and terribly excited. There are the 
trunks and the valises and the bicycle in 
its crate to get down. Two soldiers, who 
have been calling on two of the daughters, 
come up to the studio and kindly offer their 
assistance. There is no time to lose, and 
in single file the procession starts down the 
atelier stairs, headed by Pere Valois, who 
has just returned from his fruitless search 
considerably winded, and the three girls, 
the two red-trousered soldiers and myself 
tugging away at the rest of the baggage. 

It is not often one departs with the as- 
sistance of three pretty femmes de menage, 
a jolly old concierge, and a portion of the 
army of the French Republic. With many 
20 1 

suggestions from my good friends and an 
assuring wave of the hand from the aged 
cocher, my luggage is roped and chained to 
the top of the rickety, little old cab, which 
sways and squeaks with the sudden weight, 
while the poor, small horse, upon whom has 
been devolved the task of making the 11.35 
train, Gare St. Lazare, changes his posi- 
tion wearily from one leg to the other. He 
is evidently thinking out the distance, and 
has decided upon his gait. 

"Bon voyage!" cry the three girls and 
Pere Valois and the two soldiers, as the 
last trunk is chained on. 

The dingy vehicle groans its way slowly 
out of the court. Just as it reaches the last 
gate it stops. 

"What's the matter?" I ask, poking my 
head out of the window. 

"Monsieur," says the aged cocher, "it is 
an impossibility ! I regret very much to 
say that your bicycle will not pass through 
the gate." 

A dozen heads in the windows above offer 
suggestions. I climb out and take a look ; 
there are at least four inches to spare on 

either side in passing through the iron 

"Ah!" cries my cocher enthusiastically, 
"monsieur is right, happily for us !" 

He cracks his whip, the little horse 
gathers itself together — a moment of care- 
ful driving and we are through and into the 
street and rumbling away, amid cheers from 
the windows above. As I glance over my 
traps, I see a small bunch of roses tucked 
in the corner of my roll of rugs with an en- 
graved card attached. "From Mademoi- 
selle Ernestine Valois," it reads, and on 
the other side is written, in a small, fine 
hand, " Bon voyage." 

I look back to bow my acknowledgment, 
but it is too late ; we have turned the corner 
and the rue Vaugirard is but a memory ! 


But why go on telling you of what the 
little shops contain — how narrow and pic- 
turesque are the small streets— how gay 
the boulevards — what they do at the " Bul- 
lier " — or where they dine ? It is Love that 
moves Paris — it is the motive power of this 
big, beautiful, polished city — the love of 

adventure, the love of intrigue, the love of 
being a bohemian if you will — but it is Love 
all the same ! 

"I work for love," hums the little cou- 

"I work for love," cries the miller of 
Marcel Legay. 

"I live for love," sings the poet. 

"For the love of art I am a painter," 
sighs Edmond, in his atelier — "and for 

"For the love of it I mold and model and 
create," chants the sculptor — "and for her!" 

It is the Woman who dominates Paris — 
" Les petites femmes ! " who have inspired 
its art through the skill of these artisans. 

"Monsieur! monsieur! Please buy this 
fisherman doll!" cries a poor old woman 
outside of your train compartment, as you 
are leaving Havre for Paris. 

" Monsieur ! " screams a girl, running near 
the open window with a little fishergirl doll 

"What, you don't want it? You have 
bought one? Ah! I see," cries the pretty 
vendor ; " but it is a boy doll— he will be sad 

if he goes to Paris without a companion !" 
Take all the little fishergirls away from 

Paris — from the Quartier Latin — and you 

would find chaos and a morgue ! 

L'amour ! that is it — L'amour ! — L'amour ! 

— L'amour! 


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